


stalwart sun, wily moon

by dustnhalos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Antique Shop Owner Aziraphale, Art Thief Crowley, Aziraphale and Crowley are both ex-Catholics, Conservator Aziraphale, Crowley is essentially a cool uncle to all of the kids, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Gratuitous descriptions of fashion and clothing, Heist AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male Crowley (Good Omens), Motorcycles, Mutual Pining, She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Dagon (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Smoking, and Abusive Foster Parents, especially nicely styled suits and statement accessories like gloves and brooches and jewelry, like if the heist part is half of the story the fashion is the other half, like the slowest, mentions of guns but very minor, mild violence, not explicitly asexual relationship but could certainly be interpreted that way, so there'll be a lot of looks for everyone not just Az and Crowley!, very vague homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustnhalos/pseuds/dustnhalos
Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is a world-class art thief with a complicated past who, until now, had been pretty content with going through life as part of a prolific black market art trafficking ring. He enjoyed the thrill and danger of the hunt, especially if it meant he got to travel the world, play with state-of-the-art technology, and make enough money to afford anything he could ever want.That is, until a simple logistical hiccup leads him straight into the path of one Aziraphale Fell, former Head Conservator of the British Museum turned antique repair shop owner.Suddenly, there's a space in Crowley's life that only Aziraphale seems to fill, but his clandestine life of crime paired with Aziraphale's industry connections and indomitable penchant for good seems like a relationship doomed to fail.Little do they both know, the strands of friendship, morality, and deception in their shared circles of the London art world are interwoven in even more complex ways than either of them could have expected...
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s), Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Male Character(s), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 170
Kudos: 63
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> This is my very first long-form fic. Up until now, I've mainly participated in fandom as an artist, and I'm thrilled to finally be trying my hand at writing with GO. Some of you may be here after seeing my artwork for this Heist AU verse on Tumblr. 
> 
> Note: I'm using a workskin to display text messages between characters, so please read with creator style on!
> 
> And a quick disclaimer: I am ace, and while Aziraphale & Crowley are not specifically written as ace in this verse, nor do I even think of them as such, for this reason, this fic will never achieve an E rating. It very much focuses on plot and found family/romantic relationships instead. 
> 
> Thanks to [tartecosplay](tartecosplay) for being my very in-depth beta for this first chapter!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns from a job in Berlin, and runs into an unexpected problem.

## ACT ONE: WHEN THE SUN MET THE MOON

The woman sitting across the aisle from Crowley was glaring at him. 

He shot back a rakish grin, turning the charm up to eleven and baring just enough pointed canine to scream ‘definitely up to no good’.

She looked to be in her late fifties, with a drab blonde haircut and a sporting a conservatively-cut sandstone pantsuit that did absolutely nothing for her, as in there was nothing in its fit that could be deemed offensive to the sartorial-minded, but also nothing that one could call flattering. She had on a rather plain strung pearl necklace and matching earrings, which only added to the overall sandy theme that she seemed to be shooting for. _Mission accomplished_ , Crowley thought absentmindedly. 

It should be noted that the woman’s outfit wasn’t what made him decide to have a little fun on the just-shy-of-two-hour flight from Berlin Tegel to London Heathrow that the two of them were currently stuck on together. No, it was the tote bag on the seat next to her-- the seat closest to Crowley, although it hadn’t been that way at the start. When Crowley had first boarded the plane, the woman was already occupying the aisle seat in the middle row, and as far as Crowley was concerned, was of no interest whatsoever, but as soon as he sat down (or what, in layman’s terms, could only loosely be described as ‘sitting down’, being rather more of a sprawl) in his window seat across the aisle from her, she took one look at him, assumed the pinched expression of someone who had just swallowed an entire lemon, and switched seats with her tote bag so that it was in between the two of them. _Ah_ , Crowley thought.

The tote bag was a large, boxy thing, blindingly white and emblazoned with a tasteful if dreadfully drab crucifix icon and logo, spelling out _The European Council on Christian Family Values_. There was a series of weekend dates listed below, the previous weekend in October subtitled with ‘Berlin, Germany’. Obviously a schedule of events, then. The end of a lanyard hung out of the top of the bag, adorned with a pin that read ‘VIP’. 

Well, that explained things. He supposed that considering all the humans on the earth, the idea of someone like this woman and someone like Anthony J. Crowley ending up seated next to each other on a First Class flight 35,000 feet above the clouds was just the universe’s way of starting a very bad joke. 

He hadn’t requested a First Class seat. He had been flying Business, and occasionally Economy (though nowadays, too many of those in a row did awful things to his back), for years, and was fine with it. It was all the same once he fell asleep, after all, which is what he did on all his flights, really. This particular First Class upgrade had been a last-minute one, gifted to him by his latest client: Thien LeBlanc, an eccentric oil company executive who had a zealous taste for religious antiquities. They hadn’t batted an eye at Crowley’s exorbitant quote for the Berlin heist, and had provided any and all resources Crowley had requested at a lightning-fast turnaround. The smoothest job he’d had in years. When he’d made the report of his success at swiping the intended piece to LeBlanc the previous night, they’d showered him with praise, despite Crowley reminding them that he still needed to have his experts verify the authenticity of the thing. And when he offhandedly mentioned that he’d be on a Business flight back to London the following day, LeBlanc had even insisted on upgrading Crowley’s seat to First Class. It was all a bit forward for him.

But in the end, if he was being offered the chance to indulge at the expense of clients with bottomless pockets, who was he to say no? He had to admit, the extra legroom was nice.

So, here he was. First Class _hadn’t_ been his decision, but he was still well aware of the image he was currently projecting, impossibly sprawled in his seat, sipping at a glass of complimentary Pinot Noir (a bit on the fruity side for his tastes, but dry and surprisingly full-bodied) that the pretty young flight attendant had been so kind to hand him shortly before takeoff. He had lowered his sunglasses and thrown the young woman a wink over the rims in thanks, preening internally at the blush that crept into her cheeks in response. Oh, if only she knew. 

The Sandy Woman had witnessed all of this. She had no choice but to, really, a thoroughly disapproving look filling her eyes as she took in his terrible charms, his artfully tousled flame-red hair, and frankly ridiculous posture. Crowley was suddenly immensely proud of the outfit he had chosen that morning, despite some of it being in need of a wash. Tight, distressed jeans, a worn V-neck tee, and his favourite leather motorbike jacket, paired with sleek Chelsea boots-- all black as pitch, save for a standout red lick at the soles of his boots and the matching silk lining of his jacket. A burnished silver snake ring was coiled around his left index finger, and his trademark round Valentino sunglasses were, as always, perched faithfully on the bridge of his nose. (The glasses were something of a signature piece-- he wore them so ubiquitously that most of the people he knew had never seen him without.)

The overall effect was rather dramatic, and that wasn’t even taking into account the small snake tattoo coiled just in front of his right ear. He was sure none of this helped his reputation in the woman’s eyes, and that was the way he liked it. If only, he thought to himself with a rueful twist to his lips, he’d had the foresight to throw on some earrings that morning. However, she had yet to engage, and it was early enough in the morning that the part of Crowley that revelled in taking the pre-emptive arsehole route had also yet to awaken from its slumber, so for the moment, he kept to himself. 

The plane was starting to even itself out now, having reached its intended altitude with no incident, and the seatbelt sign overhead went off with a soft ‘ding’. Crowley heard the slow shuffles and clicks of other passengers undoing their seat belts with the intention of heading to the loo, and thought it an appropriate time to cross something that he’d forgotten to do that morning off his to-do list. 

He reached into his black carry-on duffle bag and drew out his personal smartphone and earbuds, flicking on the wi-fi and connecting to the airline’s network. At least in First Class it was free for the whole flight-- he would’ve had to pay past the ten-minute mark in Business, which was utter hogwash. He slid the earbuds into his ears, tapped an icon on his home screen to open an encrypted messaging app, scrolled through his contacts, and started a call. 

A crisp, American-accented voice rang through. “ _Warlock Dowling. Is that you, Uncle AJ?_ ” 

Crowley grinned. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Warlock sighed on the other end, the faint sound of footsteps and a closing door making its way through Crowley’s earbuds. “ _Through this app, I guess not._ ” He feigned an air of resignation, but Crowley could hear the mirth in his voice clear as a bell. “ _What’s up? Sounds like you’re on a plane, are you on a job?_ ”

“Just finished one, actually,” Crowley responded, setting his phone down to hand his now empty wine glass to the young flight attendant from before, trading a quick smile for her nervous one and curtly nodding his head in thanks. “I’m on my way back from Berlin now, and I’ll need to pop in to yours before making the drop, like usual.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone. Crowley could almost see Warlock rubbing his chin in thought. “ _Er, yeah, what’s the timeframe?_ ” 

“Ehhyeeahhh, this one...this one’s short, m’afraid.” Crowley rubbed a hand against his forehead, bracing himself for an incoming problem. “...The next two days or so?”

“ _Crowley…_ ” He grimaced at Warlock’s use of his surname. That was reserved for when he was in trouble.

“I know, I know!” Crowley screwed his eyes shut, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “S’not ideal, I hate to put that on you, but I was on the phone all last night with the client after the acquisition and this morning her _Lordship_ phoned to tell me that they were so itching to get their fingers on it that they wanted the delivery date moved up to two weeks from now, and that money was no object. So of course Bee said yes to that without consulting me at all. Y’know. Classic Bee.”

Warlock tutted on the other side of the line. “ _Well,_ Bee _doesn’t know what you need the time for._ ”

Crowley, ever the dramatic, rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“ _Is two weeks enough time for the Them?_ ”

Crowley exhaled deeply, pursing his lips. “Frankly it shouldn’t be, but I called Pepper after my talk with Bee, and damned if she isn’t keen. She said she could hash out the details with Wensley, and that they happen to have a lot of what they need on hand already. And Adam’s got some existing leads. We just need the authentication ASAP, to give ‘em as much time as possible, y’know.”

“ _Yeah…_ ” Warlock dragged out the end of the word, hesitant in his tone.

“I know it’s a hard ask, Warlock. You’re always busy as all hell, I hate to do this to you. But is there any way? I’ll owe you one, big time.”

“ _Well, er, that’s actually not the problem,_ ” Warlock began, accompanied by what sounded like the flipping open of a book or journal. “ _The problem is that the Society is...sending me to New York. In approximately…_ ” he paused, “ _...three and a half hours time._ ” 

“What?!”

Warlock made the auditory equivalent of a noncommittal shrug. “ _Yeah, um, I just passed my 5-year mark, so I’m eligible to shadow on the international acquisitions now. This’ll be my first one. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know it would happen so fast. They just gave me the itinerary details a few days ago. I’ve been working like a madman to wrap things up here at Burlington House before I have to be away for the next few weeks._ ”

“Eugh,” Crowley groaned, then remembered his manners and begrudgingly forced out, “Mazeltov.”

Warlock actually _laughed_ at him. “ _Piss off._ ”

“Ng, no, really. You deserve it. It’s what you wanted, yeah? Five years,” he mumbled, all too aware at how awful he was at expressing any kind of sincere affection. “Y’worked real hard to get to where you are, and you deserve a congrats. Should be proud. Y’know.” He coughed. “I am.”

Warlock made a noise of disgust. “ _Ugh, Uncle AJ, I’ll buy you dinner when I get back or something. Just stop, please._ ”

Crowley spluttered out a series of nonsensical noises, seemingly all consonants, that had the woman in the next aisle shooting him another suspicious glare. 

“Well, I won’t turn down a free dinner, but-- what’m I going to do about this job, then? I can’t use the company’s 3rd-party vendors if we still want Wensley and Pepper to do their thing; besides, it took me years and smooth talk out the arse just to convince Bee to let me use you.” Crowley sighed. “S’my fault, honestly. I should’ve remembered about your 5-year mark.”

“ _Okay, there’s no way you could’ve known about the trip. I didn’t even know until Tuesday, so, shut up with that._ ”

“Well, what d’you want me to do??” Crowley complained, the picture of petulance. 

Warlock paused for a good minute, so silent that Crowley made to double check if the wi-fi had disconnected. 

“ _I...might have an idea._ ”

“Spit it out then, you hellion, before Bee kicks me to the kerb with no prospects and a woefully criminal LinkedIn profile.”

Warlock wished Crowley could see him rolling his eyes. 

“ _I have a...friend,_ ” he started. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “A friend.” 

“ _An associate. In my museum circles._ ” Warlock continued. “ _I think...I think he could do the authentication for you in my place. Tomorrow, yeah?_ ”

Crowley was skeptical of this proposal for several different reasons. “Warlock. Er...not that I don’t trust you, known each other for a long time now and all that, but you understand how mental that sounds, yeah? First off, who is this bloke? How d’you know he’ll be free tomorrow? You’re always busy, after all.”

“ _N-- well, uh...no, not exactly. He’s...likely not that busy, actually. He doesn’t work the museum circuit anymore. He, uh...he owns a shop._ ”

“A shop?” 

“ _Yeah. An antique shop._ ” 

“An antique shop. Right. But peddling your gran’s hand-me-down tea sets doesn’t exactly equate to someone being qualified to judge the authenticity of centuries-old works of art, if you catch my drift.”

“ _Well, Mr. Fell is a Fellow at the Society, like me,_ ” Warlock replied. “ _That’s how we met, actually. He’d been there for over a decade by the time I joined. Used to work conservation at a few different prestigious institutions here in London. Showed me a few ropes when I first got my internship, actually._ ”

This _Mr. Fell_ was becoming more bewildering by the second. In Crowley’s experience, those who reached that kind of tenure in the London museum scene didn’t tend to just _putter off_ and run an _antique shop_ ; they held onto their hard-earned, or often times, hard- _given_ by an affluent family member, prestige for dear life, obsessed with the status it gave them in front of colleagues and the art world at large. 

“Why’d he stop then? Got sick of the pretentious arseholes? Did all the work and got shit pay while the board members lined their pockets?” The pre-emptive arsehole was finally starting to wake up, it seemed. “Ooh, did he get sticky fingers? Fall from Grace? Get sacked, open a shop, and now he’s got no choice but to work with sods like me to keep the lights on? Is he a _convicted felon?_ ” He emphasised that last bit in a tone verging on sing-song, purely to be annoying. Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley noticed that the word ‘felon’ had prompted a scandalised look to flash across Sandy Woman’s face, which filled his heart with unadulterated glee. 

“ _Wha-- no!_ ” The very thought of sweet, kindhearted Mr. Fell even sharing a sentence with the phrase ‘convicted felon’ had Warlock shuddering internally. And that was saying something, coming from someone who had spent entirely too many years of his childhood committing petty crimes and stuck in juvenile detention, and was currently on the phone with a man who, in the eyes of probably every legal system on the planet, should be serving a very lengthy jail sentence indeed. “ _He’s not a_ criminal, _Uncle AJ. He’s...brilliant. Brilliant and generous. And kind. And yeah, he opened the shop because he was tired of the_ donors _and the_ bureaucracy _and the_ colonialism _of it all. Turns out the man got more pleasure from restoring old family heirlooms and helping little old ladies cross the street than always being in the middle of pissing contests between a bunch of old dudes with sticks up their asses, even_ if _priceless 14th century Christian artifacts were involved. But believe me when I say he’s completely capable of dancing circles around said artifacts.”_

Having taken in all the information Warlock had given him thus far, Crowley’s pea brain was suddenly overcome with an intense vision of a portly, cherub-faced man in his granddad’s clothing, smiling a thousand-wattage smile and tap dancing circles around a marble bust of Jesus Christ while off-kilter harpsichord music played in the background. The Lord and Saviour did not look happy, but then again, he rarely did. 

Crowley shook himself out of his brain’s idiotic antics, and back to the situation at hand. “Alright, so smart bloke then, but if he’s as pure and _kind_ as you say, why on Earth would he help someone like me?”

“ _You don’t...you don’t have to tell him where you got the thing,_ ” Warlock said, though the hesitation in his voice was apparent. 

“So what, _lie_?” Crowley hissed incredulously, lowering his voice for the purpose of discretion in the full cabin, although the lights had dimmed since the beginning of their call and nearly all of the passengers were now fast asleep. Annoyingly, Sandy Woman was an exception to this, and was still sitting straight-backed and mirthless in her seat, now clutching the tote bag next to her tightly in a tense, white-knuckled grip. “To your friend and _mentor_ , the _generous_ and _kind_ Mr. Fell? And you’d be okay with that, knowing that your name’d be attached if our little operation goes down the shitter?” 

Warlock had to admit, this was where he was at a bit of a crossroads about the entire situation. It was undeniable that for all intents and purposes, what Crowley did for a living was steal precious works of art, often from awfully high profile institutions, and sell them off to the wealthy, morally-bankrupt elite. It was about as polar opposite as one could get from Mr. Fell’s inquisitive, purely academic-minded inclinations. Knowingly aiding Crowley in his work for the past few years made Warlock an active participant in the crimes as well, which would most certainly end his conservation career if things ever went south. It seemed like an objectively bad idea to involve someone else at all, not to mention someone who had done nothing but good for him in the years they’d known each other. 

But...there was something-- call it instinct-- that Warlock felt about the proposition that had him leaning in favour of it. It wasn’t, it wasn’t the criminal nature of it all, it was...it was _Crowley_. He couldn’t suss out exactly why. Maybe it was the debt he felt towards the older man, some deep-seated allegiance he held for the person who by this point essentially filled the role of god-uncle, if that was a thing. Even a sort of surrogate father figure. Someone who had had the patience to drag his sorry ass off the street all those years ago and make him into something, _anything_. Anything more than the directionless, self-destructive punk he’d been at age fifteen. 

Against all logical reasoning, he didn’t feel like he’d be _betraying_ Mr. Fell. He _didn’t_. He didn’t understand it, but Warlock would gladly take all responsibility, should it come down to it. It felt better than the alternative of relinquishing this job to the mercy of Crowley’s shadowy employers. 

“ _Crowley_.”

Crowley straightened almost imperceptibly, his attention garnered by Warlock’s tone and the second use of his surname. 

“ _What other option do you have?_ ” 

“I- wh-- but I’m not going to--”

“ _Crowley. Go see Mr. Fell. Just...what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right? Trust me on this. I’m asking you to trust me._ ”

“Warlock…” A hint of desperation now coloured Crowley’s voice.

“ _Please._ ”

He sighed. 

“...Alright.”

\------------------------------

After some hashing out of logistics and Warlock promising to give the esteemed Mr. Fell a call right away, Crowley pressed the ‘end call’ button on his phone and took out his earbuds, remembering to drop his sunglasses back into place in front of his eyes and letting out an exhale that was slightly louder than could be considered polite in a crowded plane full of sleeping passengers. Thankfully, none of them stirred from their slumber.

“Run into a spot of trouble, then?” a voice said, breaking the even-thrummed silence of the plane. Crowley startled slightly, having not been spoken to the entirety of the flight save for by the nice young flight attendant. His glasses thankfully managed to hide the brief spike of his anxiety, masking the way his eyes widened behind the dark lenses. 

“Sorry?” he said, turning his head to face the owner of the voice, phone still in hand, displeased but unsurprised that it was Sandy Woman, who was now looking at him with a miffed expression. 

“Must’ve been important, your call,” she said in a clipped tone. “Otherwise it seems terribly rude to chatter on the phone when people are trying to sleep.” She turned away from him again, looking resolutely ahead at the little LED screen mounted on the back of the seat in front of her, which was currently happily displaying its little 2D flight plan, a small plane icon indicating their current location above the English Channel. 

_Well._ If that’s the way she wanted to play, Crowley would certainly deliver. His inner demon had officially had its metaphorical cup of morning coffee, and was ready for a good bout of mischief.

“Oh, well, you know,” he replied, not missing a beat. “The _Dark Lord_ ’s not exactly a patient being. Annual ritual’s tomorrow, y’know.” 

Sandy Woman whipped her head back in his direction. _Too easy_ , Crowley thought, grinning internally. 

He gave her his best innocent smile, radiating as much do-no-wrong aura as one possibly could wearing all black and sunglasses inside a dim airplane cabin. The reading light above his head did a fantastic job of setting his auburn hair ablaze, a shock of flame-red that cast dark shadows on his angular features. 

“I was talking to my friend Warlock about getting a lamb. The younger the better. Blood’s purer that way-- better for the canvas, you know,” he started, dropping down his tray table and leaning an elbow on it casually, as if he were casually asking after the weather. “Adorable, aren’t they? S’a shame they don’t survive. Would love to keep one as a pet.” He pursed his lips in disappointment.

Sandy Woman looked utterly scandalised at this, eyes widening in shock. “Y- you!” she started, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction. “You...beast!” 

Crowley angled his head upwards to look at the ceiling, resting his chin in his hand. “If only I could be so lucky,” he said, wistfully.

The woman stood up suddenly, nearly tripping in the small, cluttered space of her seat. She frantically grabbed her carry-on, an appropriately true-to-form beige purse, and her tote, and turned back to Crowley one last time. 

“I knew you were damned from the moment I saw you,” she spat bitterly, before turning up her nose and shuffling down the aisle away from him, bags awkwardly in tow. 

Crowley watched her with interest for a few seconds, then turned to settle back into his seat. He put his phone and earbuds back into his bag, clicked off the reading light, and closed his eyes behind his sunglasses with a smile. 

_S’not that bad, once you get used to it._

\------------------------------

He got a ping from Bee while waiting at the baggage claim terminal at Heathrow.

Lord Beelzebub (Imp )  
  
Sent Hastur to pick you up, since we got the shortened time frame for Berlin now. Should get there soon.  
  


Crowley made a face at his phone. He should’ve been grateful, he supposed, that it was Hastur, and not Hastur and Ligur both, the bonafide Bonnie and Clyde of their little criminal enterprise, if Bonnie and Clyde had been the most uncouth and utterly graceless pair of men to ever be attached at the hip. 

He’d been with the Company long enough to begrudgingly admit that Hastur and Ligur were effective in their roles as enforcers. To the layman, he supposed, the overall impression they gave off was indeed intimidating, although by this point in his career, Crowley’s own skillset had developed to the point that his work rarely involved the kind of heavy hand that the dynamic duo specialised in. If anything, the signature brand of ‘charming wanker’ that Crowley carefully cultivated only served to drive Hastur and Ligur up the wall. Nowadays, they only tended to cross his path as Bee’s glorified errand boys, which Crowley took massive pleasure in reminding them of. Having to pick him up at the airport? Case in point. He was absolutely positive that Hastur hated the notion just as much as he did.

Although if she were to send only one, he would’ve preferred Ligur. If pustules could embody a human form, Hastur would be it. He was endlessly grateful that one of the first things he had done when he’d been issued his work phone was to turn off his read receipts, because he had no intention of willingly sitting in an enclosed space with Hastur for five minutes, let alone an hour and a half. 

He grinned to himself. Bee didn’t have to know.

Crowley made his way to the ground transportation level after picking up his checked luggage, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder. He stepped out into the cool October air, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the morning light. It was still a relatively early hour on a Thursday morning, so not too many travellers were out and about. 

It wasn’t long after Crowley stepped up to the kerb before he was able to flag down a taxi. He pointedly refused the cabbie’s offers to help him load his luggage into the boot of the black TX4, carefully doing it himself before folding his lanky limbs into the backseat. 

“Mayfair,” he said to the driver curtly, flashing her the address of a street corner a block away from his flat on his mobile. She took one look at his person, considered his manner thus far, and deduced that the correct course of action was to nod and start driving with nary a word to be said for the whole journey. 

Crowley loved people with good heads on their shoulders. 

He settled into his usual boneless sprawl, happily ignoring the pointed buzzing of his work phone on the seat next to him, and let his mind wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this posting, I have 17 chapters (~133k) written, the 30 chapter count being just a prediction. I'll be posting once a week on Sundays, with likely longer gaps in between as we near the end. 
> 
> All embedded art is by me, unless otherwise stated. 
> 
> I try my best to be accurate with British-isms and researching the topics here, but feel free to let me know if there are any outlandish inconsistencies! I'm very aware that Crowley's position as a dashing, Bond-esque art thief is already silly to begin with, but I really am a sucker for slick, stylish stories like that, haha.
> 
> As a final note, I'd like to call out the stellar [Divine Restorations & Repairs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690658/chapters/59671660#workskin) by [skimmingthesurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) and [SylviaW1991](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/pseuds/SylviaW1991), which I actually discovered several chapters into writing this fic, but thereafter referenced heavily for the level of detail and emotional atmosphere I wanted to achieve in my own writing. Absolutely go check out their work.
> 
> Come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets some work done, and mulls over a strange call he received the day previous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to start! I thought one wasn't quite enough to start us off running.

Aziraphale was trying, deeply, to concentrate on the task at hand. 

Deirdre Young had stopped in that morning right as he’d flipped the door sign to ‘open’ at eight o’clock sharp, with a shabby but carefully packed box under her arm, clamouring excitedly about a new find. She hadn’t called ahead, which was in clear violation of the ‘Repairs and Restorations by appointment only’ clause above the hours sign in the window of his shop, but there were two factors at play in this scenario: 1) Aziraphale was objectively awful at following the rule he himself had written, and 2) Deirdre was a dear, dear friend.

Aziraphale had known her ever since he had taken over the shop, now named _A.Z. Fell and Co.: Antiques, Restorations, & Repairs_, after his grandfather on his father’s side, the original proprietor, had passed fourteen years ago. His grandfather, bless his heart, had been an exceedingly kind and altruistic man, and a pillar of the community here in Soho London for the entire tenure of his shop. 

No one had really _intended_ for it to be a family business; Aziraphale’s father, although also in the antiques and conservation business, had been an only child and it was just an understood fact in the family that Mason St. Claire didn’t have the kind of disposition or interest to carry on what was essentially a service to the community like his father. He was too ambitious, too exacting, too uptight-- but that had led him into a perfectly successful, frankly very notable, career in the London museum business. 

Aziraphale was not an only child, and actually did have a similar disposition as well as a very close relationship to his grandfather growing up. He’d spent many a boyhood weekend in the old shop, watching his grandfather carefully tinker with the mechanisms inside old pocket watches, or apply fresh coats of varnish to time-worn, heirloom Victorian armchairs, asking questions the entire time, but his father had made it very clear to him and his two siblings that they were to follow in his footsteps in the museum business. And Aziraphale had taken to art and conservation at a very young age, so at the time, it had all seemed right as rain anyway.

It wasn’t until he was over a decade into what was promising to be a very nice career indeed that he began feeling the nagging sensation of discontent in his heart, which came to a head at (or perhaps, was culminated _by_ ) precisely the moment the Universe decided that his grandfather’s time was past. It hadn’t been a surprise to anyone that he had chosen to leave his shop to Aziraphale; everyone knew he was his favorite. 

It _had_ been a surprise to everyone that Aziraphale chose that fateful moment to leave his prestigious position as Head Conservator at the British Museum to take up the reins at the old corner shop in Soho. His father had not been pleased, and Aziraphale was sure that seeing the name _A.Z. Fell_ newly emblazoned in gold over the storefront affronted him all the much more. But Aziraphale maintained that it was one of the best decisions he had ever made, not that his father was still alive anymore to continue their long-lived bickering sessions on the issue.

Not a week after he’d opened the doors under his new name, Deirdre Young had made an appearance, introducing herself as the young mother of a chaotic soon-to-be teenager, Adam, and an avid, enthusiastic antiques collector. She’d been a customer of his grandfather’s in his last months, and a staple in Aziraphale’s life ever since. 

So naturally, this morning he had ushered her through the door with a smile, and promptly put the kettle on. Though, it seemed ‘whirlwind’ was the atmosphere she had been going for that Friday, because not soon after giving a brief retelling of her most recent weekend trip to the flea market down in Kensington, she had checked her watch with a harried look, frantically apologised that she had another urgent appointment to tend to, and disappeared out the front door, leaving Aziraphale the confused caretaker of a large cardboard box and an untouched cup of English Breakfast tea. 

He’d sighed, hands on his hips as he looked at the sad, orphaned teacup. _No sense in letting perfectly good tea go to waste_ , he thought, reaching for the sugar dish. 

\------------------------------

Aziraphale spent the morning puttering about the shop, shooting thinly-veiled looks of disdain at the smattering of walk-in customers who mostly deigned to just _browse_ , and finishing up some of the smaller repair jobs he had been putting off completing over the course of the week. He made sure to update his ledgers when clients came to pick up their fresh-faced items, balancing the books immediately afterwards with a flourish, knowing that he’d be reluctant to come back to the nitty-gritty details later if he forewent them in the moment.

It was now early afternoon, and Aziraphale had just sat back down to his work after taking a brief lunch break, where he had strolled down the street to the lovely little café, _Haven_ , on the opposite corner of the street. It was probably his most frequented location for a spot of lunch on the weekdays. He’d said his customary hellos to the staff, all of whom knew him by name at this point, although they were generally young university student types, which inevitably meant that every few months, a familiar face would disappear and a fresh one would surface for him to get acquainted with. 

Such was the life for young people these days. Being October, the school semester had just started, and he’d delighted in asking after everyone’s studies in the new year. He constantly waffled between whether the staff were just humoring an old, eccentric fuddy-duddy like him, or whether they were impressed that he could so easily follow along with the minutiae of so many concurrent threads of research papers and campus drama, never to forget a single detail. For him, it was just nice to regularly hold conversations with such bright young minds. It certainly didn’t hurt that their tea selection was wide and their offerings of baked goods and deli-style meals were positively scrumptious. _Haven_ indeed.

Young Newton Pulsifer had been working the counter that morning, as he always did in the latter half of the week, with the exception of Sundays, where he now held the afternoon shift as a favor to one of the other baristas, Tom, who’d begged him for the schedule swap because Sunday mornings were the only times outside of his uni classes he could spare to visit his mum, a poor elderly woman who had recently been sent to hospital after a tragic incident involving an errant ladder and boots with decidedly not-grippy-enough soles that had happened sometime in the sunny afternoon of the previous Monday, right in the middle of Tom’s mid-semester Classics of European Literature exam. 

(When Aziraphale said he knew _all_ of the staff, he really wasn’t kidding. They chalked it up mostly to just how often he was a patron at the café, which was a convenient enough excuse. The real reason was just that Aziraphale had, as many of his friends had commented on in the past, a startlingly good memory for completely mundane details.)

Newt himself was an interesting character. He had been working at the café for longer than any other employee that Aziraphale had gotten to know in the few years since the little place opened down the street from his shop. Even the managers, which would be puzzling to a layperson, but having known Newt for several years now, Aziraphale...understood. Newt was also pursuing his studies at the nearby University College London, majoring in Computer Science, but to say his journey was eccentric would be an understatement. He was a bright, inquisitive mind to be certain, but he was rather...well, accident-prone would be the gentlest way to put it. 

Technology had never been Aziraphale’s forte, but perhaps that was for the best, because Newt seemed to offend every piece of it that he came into contact with; at least, any technology that could even vaguely be described as a modern computer. The outdated till at the café seemed to have begrudgingly accepted the boy’s good graces at this point, as nothing had gone amiss during lunchtime when he’d checked Aziraphale out for his Earl Grey, small caprese sandwich, and almond-glazed peach scone to go. The iPad that the café had employed during its first year hadn’t been so lucky. Aziraphale remembered the EMT’s shrill screech of “get out of the way, this customer needs _immediate medical attention_ ” in shuddering detail. 

But Newt was sweet, kind, and soft-spoken, and Aziraphale liked him immensely. They’d become good friends in the years following, and although they were tasks that Aziraphale was severely overqualified for, he’d made it clear to the boy that if he ever needed a boot sole or a shattered saucer or broken eyeglasses repaired, Aziraphale’s shop was always there for him. Newt had taken this offer in stride, as it turned out he unfortunately often found himself the owner of broken things, but just as much as an excuse to sit down for a cuppa and a nice chat with a friend. 

It also helped that Aziraphale’s collection of rotary telephones and vintage typewriters, not to mention the hefty, brass 1912 Tiffany cash register sitting at his front counter were resolutely immune to young Newt’s malignant charms. It seemed like this was at least one area where the old and shabby managed to outwit the modern. A good thing, that was. 

The box Deirdre had brought that morning, shabby as it was, indeed contained a fantastic find. Aziraphale had slipped on his half-moon spectacles and opened the box carefully with his trusty pearl-handled pen knife, lifting the flaps and removing the layers of packing paper until he revealed his prize with a soft gasp. He would _definitely_ have to call Deirdre for the whole play-by-play on her flea market trip later.

It was an antique cuckoo clock, but not just any-- a genuine specimen of the _Verein die Schwarzwalduhr_ , or Black Forest Clock Association, judging by the official certificate of authenticity slotted neatly next to the clock itself-- a storied group of fine producers, experts, and craftsmen from the southwestern German region of Schwarzwald, long known in the clock community as the best at their trade. Their work set the standard for clockmakers all over the world. 

[This clock in particular](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/59f09f1490badec50a537bd0/1549576260255-OUDW5DIEC4136UMGCVNI/image-asset.jpeg?content-type=image%2Fjpeg) looked to be at least a century old, made of beautiful rosewood in a Chalet style, complete with a finely carved thatch roof, pointed evergreen trees, and little figurines of woodchoppers and a happy couple dancing hand-in-hand. The paint on the pieces was faded and chipped, and upon gingerly lifting the clock out of its box, Aziraphale noticed several cracks and warps in the integrity of the wood. It was in poor condition, to be sure, but the thought of fixing her up like new only caused Aziraphale to give an eager wiggle in his chair as his mind turned with all the steps he would need to take. This would be an exciting project. 

It was a three-weight clock with an 8-day movement, he mused, after taking a quick glance at the number of chains that hung from the bottom of it. The weights and pendulum were thankfully all present, although he noted with a frown that both of the wooden clock hands were damaged and several of the smaller wooden pieces, like the swinging door that contained the cuckoo bird, the spire of the bell tower atop the thatched roof, and the little water wheel that was no doubt intended to turn during proper operation, were broken in various places. The bird itself looked to have wings that were intended to flap, but one of the wings was missing. It looked like there would be a fair bit of carpentry involved in this repair.

He got started by carefully cleaning the exterior, dusting the nooks and crannies of the intricately-carved pieces that had been dulled from lack of care. “You poor thing,” he mumbled, “no one has taken care of you in some time, have they? Don’t you worry, I’ll get you looking spry as a spring chicken in no time.”

Aziraphale then dug around under his workstation for his cuckoo stand, loosening the wingnuts and adjusting the two hanging beams to the correct width. He carefully hung the clock on the stand, starting the swing of the pendulum and listening intently for the sound of the tick. It was ticking, indicating the mechanism was working, which was a good sign, but the ticks were unevenly spaced, the right-hand swing just a hair shorter than the left. He double-checked to make sure the clock was level, which it was. A problem with the crutch then, he thought to himself. A fairly simple fix, if things went his way.

Aziraphale turned the clock round on its stand, so the back was facing him, and removed the wooden back panel, setting it aside on a clean rag before stopping the motion of the pendulum. He paused to check the condition of the interior; the bellows, unsurprisingly, were worn and a bit grimy, but seemed solid upon inspection, so he figured a nice cleaning and a bit of sandpaper would be sufficient. The bellow cloth was a different story-- they were quite degraded and crumbled at his touch, completely to be expected of a clock this old, but Aziraphale luckily already had all the supplies he needed to replace them.

He opened the lifting wire holes with a small flat-head screwdriver, removing the lifting wires attached to the old bellows and placing them on the rag next to the back panel, taking care not to mix the two wires up. Then, he unscrewed the bellows themselves and broke off the degraded tops and accompanying clips with a snap, using his pen knife to scrape the old glue residue away before cleaning and sanding the wooden shafts. 

Aziraphale retrieved the appropriate replacement bellows from the vintage apothecary cabinet on his workbench, matching the sides accordingly before twisting the pins from the old bellow tops with a pair of pliers, and inserting them into the new ones. He glued the new tops onto the freshly sanded bellows, stood up from his chair to stretch and deal with the scant few customers that had wandered in since his lunch break while he waited for it to dry, then returned to screw the new bellows back into the clock. 

Finished with his little bellow detour, Aziraphale turned his attention back to the uneven tick problem, proceeding to find the crutch wire and grip it in the center, one finger on the side with the shorter tick and two on the other, pushing ever so gently until he felt the wire give under the slight pressure. He then restarted the swing of the pendulum, listening for the beat. Hm, not quite.

It took a few more rounds of trial and error before Aziraphale was satisfied that he had evened out the beat. 

He made sure that the shut-off switch was off, then prepared himself for the moment of truth-- turning the minute hand to twelve and giving a delighted hurrah when the cuckoo bird popped faithfully out of its nest, firing off its song, the familiar melody of _Edelweiss_ even chiming along from the music box. “Now isn’t that just lovely,” he said fondly. “All you needed was a little pamper.” He would need to make some minor adjustments to the music box mechanism to stop it a smidge more accurately after the cuckoo bird ended its call, but for today, he was pleased. 

Focus still abound and energised by his progress, Aziraphale wandered off to the kitchenette for another cup of tea before coming back to get started on the carpentry portion of the clock’s repair.

\------------------------------

He had just pulled out his magnifying work lamp and was busy chiseling tiny feather grooves into the tiny wooden replacement wing for the cuckoo bird when his alarm clock (a lovely etched-gold piece from the 70s that he had chanced upon during a trip to an antiques conference in the Czech Republic some years past) went off with a loud trill, startling him so badly that he almost dropped his tweezers, along with the little wing that he had clamped between them. God knows if it had fallen to the floor, it would’ve been nigh impossible to find amongst the dimly-lit, cluttered mess of things scattered around his workstation.

He frantically set his tools down and scrambled to switch off the alarm, knocking over a thankfully tightly-closed pot of glue on his workbench in the process.

“Goodness, is it quarter to six already?” he mumbled to himself, glancing at the roman numeral face on the clock. Aziraphale had really let the time get away from him while working. (Let it be known that he was very much aware of the irony of losing track of the time whilst working on a clock, but, life was strange in that way, wasn’t it?)

He took a sip from his now nearly-empty angel wing mug, pouting at the taste of the cold, abandoned tea. That wouldn’t do. Aziraphale rose from his chair, making the short trip from his workshop to the little kitchenette conveniently connected to it, filling the kettle with a fresh belly of water and flicking on the burner with a click. 

Quarter to six.

Warlock’s phone call to him the previous day floated up to the surface of his memory again.

Aziraphale had met Warlock Dowling a little over five years ago by chance, while roaming the halls of Burlington House after a quarterly Council meeting at the Society of Antiquaries in London proper. He had made something of a habit of walking rather leisurely through the collections after each meeting, as he was already in the area and it gave him the perfect opportunity to reacquaint himself with the Society’s collection, as well as explore what new exhibitions had been added since he’d been in last, all before public visitor hours, where it was just him, the art, and the fresh morning quiet. 

He had been surprised to see a surly-looking young man exit the administrative wing only a few metres down the hall from him, shutting the door behind him gingerly and looking down at his feet. He hadn’t fit the mold one would usually expect of a museum-goer-- early twenties at most, with straight, shoulder-length dark brown hair that hung in his face and an expression that looked very much defiant of authority. Aziraphale noted however that he’d been wearing a crisp chambray button-up and a thin, deep navy tie under a thick, proper-looking grey cardigan, along with nice, speckled black wool trousers and black dress boots. They were clothes that looked neatly put together, but inexplicably screamed that they had been done so begrudgingly. The hint of chipped black polish around the edge of the young man’s fingernails and the not-quite-fully-wiped-away smudges of eyeliner at the corner of his dull green eyes may have given a clue as to that. Aziraphale almost had to stifle a laugh at the sight. 

“Hi,” the young man had said curtly in a smooth American accent, stopping in his tracks with his hand still on the door handle, staring straight at Aziraphale. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale had replied gently, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Were you in for an interview?”

Warlock’s eyes had widened in surprise at that. He’d thought that the middle-aged man in the tweed waistcoat and bowtie standing in front of him would have assumed that he’d been there in the capacity of whatever the museum equivalent of getting sent to the headmaster’s office at school was. That he was a moment’s notice away from accosting him verbally for worming his way into the building before opening hours, or turning down the hall to shout for security. Old habits, he supposed.

“Er-- yeah,” he’d stammered out eventually, letting go of the door handle and wiping the beginning trickle of sweat on his palms down the dry wool of his trousers. “Internship,” he supplied. “Conservation.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale had said, genuine excitement blooming across his face. “Council President Dowling has been ever so anxious about that position, this year’s selection was especially difficult.” He’d brought his hands together in front of him in a hopeful gesture. “Good news, I hope?”

A momentary flash of uncertainty had crossed Warlock’s mind at the mention of his father, and his mind had been gearing up for some kind of explanation, before he’d thought to himself: _Wait a second. Why should I explain myself to this stranger? I don’t even know who he is._ “Er, yeah,” he managed to choke out instead. “I...I got it.”

Aziraphale had beamed, a wide smile breaking out on his face. “That’s marvelous, my dear boy!” Warlock had visibly cringed at the ‘dear boy’ and shrunk ever so slightly from the conversation, both physically and emotionally. Aziraphale had noticed this reaction, and had decided that a cautious olive branch would be the best course of action for this intriguing, but obviously rather prickly young man, his own eagerness to see a fresh young face around these parts be damned. 

“Well,” he’d said, fumbling in his inside jacket pocket for a business card, “My name is Aziraphale Fell. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to the Society-- I’m sure you’ll have a jolly old time learning about conservation with us. I used to be a conservator at various institutions myself. If you need a hand, have any questions about the work, or want to know anything about the industry or living in the city, feel free give me a ring anytime.” He’d extended his hand in a friendly offering. 

Warlock had taken the business card. _A.Z. Fell & Co.: Antiques, Restorations, & Repairs_, it said, in elegant copperplate, subtitled with _Aziraphale Fell, Owner_ underneath, along with a phone number and address for a location in London Soho. 

He’d shaken Aziraphale Fell’s hand. “Nice to meet you too,” he’d mumbled, and was surprised to realize that he meant it.

The rest, as far as the two of them was concerned, was history. 

Warlock’s Thursday morning phone call, however, was still fresh at the forefront of his mind, clear as crystal. 

He’d called, early before the shop opened, asking for a favour, in a serious tone of voice that Aziraphale rarely heard from his rebellious young friend (Were they friends? He liked to think so). It had filled him with a sense of concern right from the get-go.

Young Warlock had then put forth a rather unusual request for Aziraphale-- an after-hours art authentication, for a ‘close friend’ of his who happened to work in the area of acquisition and sales of high-end, rare artwork. He’d been very pointed about the importance of discretion, of the after-hours bit, and that Aziraphale stayed very hush-hush about the entire affair.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale had started, slowly, “We’ve known each other for some years now; this is...rather peculiar, if I must say so myself.”

For one, Aziraphale didn’t claim to know everything about Warlock Dowling and his connections, but he was fairly certain that between falling just short of mentoring the boy over the course of his budding career and his own excellent CV, the venn diagram of high-status people he knew working in the art world and high-status people Warlock knew working in the art world should very nearly be a circle. 

Warlock had heaved a sigh on the other end of the phone. “I...I know, Mr. Fe-- Aziraphale,” he’d replied, making his often-repeated mistake of calling Aziraphale by his surname in deference to their large age difference, despite Aziraphale’s constant protests. “He’s...in the private sector. It’s sensitive stuff, I can’t tell you much about the context, but he needs an authentication on a recent acquisition as soon as possible. ” he continued, the hint of insecurity clear in his voice. “I usually do it for him outside of work, but you know, my New York trip…”

Aziraphale had softened at that. “Oh,” he’d said, “yes, of course. You’re leaving this afternoon for it. And your friend, he’s on a schedule, then?”

“Yes,” Warlock had answered, sounding incredibly small. “He needs it by tomorrow. I messed up. I should’ve been available for him. I...actually owe him a lot, he’s-- he’s basically family,” A slight pause hung on the airwaves. “You know what, I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, I shouldn’t have thought to put this on you when I can’t give you more information, I’ll just-- I’ll tell the Society I can’t make the trip--”

“No--” Aziraphale had interrupted hurriedly, making his mind up rather suddenly “No, my dear boy. You can’t do that. You’ve worked so hard to get to this point.”

“But--”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale had said, firmly. “Go on your trip. I haven’t any plans after hours tomorrow evening; I’ll meet your friend at closing, no questions asked. I promise.”

“Really? I...I owe you, big time, Mr. Fell.”

“Absolutely. And pish posh, dear boy. Consider it a favor, for the wonderful friendship you’ve provided this old man for the past few years.”

Warlock had breathed an absolute sigh of relief at that. 

That had been Thursday.

And now, on Friday, Aziraphale stood in his shop five minutes till six, shaken out of his reminiscing and absentminded flipping of the shop sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ by the whistle of the kettle going off in the kitchenette. He bustled back into the small space, grabbing the white angel wing mug he’d been using during the day and rummaging through his cupboard for its rarely-used counterpart, an identical winged mug that had come as part of a matched set with his own, only in black. He poured the hot water into both mugs, and considered his tea collection, before settling on a fragrant, spicy black Darjeeling, out of no reasoning other than contrast to his earlier Earl Grey. 

It was then, an appropriate amount of loose leaf Darjeeling shaken into their sterling silver infusers and set next to their respective mugs, that he reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out the small slip of paper therein that contained the hastily scribbled details from the tail end of his phone call with Warlock.

_Anthony J. Crowley._

A phone number. And below that--

_‘Flash bastard’_

Aziraphale looked at the last phrase dejectedly. The last thing he’d asked Warlock for during their call was a clue for how to recognize this Mr. Crowley when he arrived, lest he showed up before closing time and Aziraphale instinctively started to drive him away with his signature brand of ‘antique shop owner who doesn’t want to sell any antiques’. ‘Flash bastard’ had been Warlock’s response, and the young man had refused to give any more information than that, stating vehemently that there would be no possible way Aziraphale would be able to miss the man. 

Aziraphale truly had no idea what to expect now. 

The Universe apparently decided that he should be spared from any agony of waiting, though, because just as the grandfather clock in the shop’s atrium struck six and began its chimes, the regular, muffled din of Soho on a Friday evening outside the shop was suddenly undercut with a loud, telltale rumble. The noise grew louder, or rather, closer, as Aziraphale made his way back to the front and very slightly lifted one half of the cream linen curtains on the main window, peeking out with vague curiosity.

 _Oh_ , he said to himself, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly on the winged handle of his mug. 

_Oh, bollocks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Aziraphale and Crowley meet in the next chapter! I wouldn't be so cruel as to make you guys wait too long before they meet :')
> 
> Researching cuckoo clock repair for this chapter made me really interested in owning one for myself, but the cute Black Forest ones would clash with absolutely everything I own, haha.
> 
> Come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon cross paths for business reasons, but both of them leave the encounter feeling a bit more...intrigued, than they expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments and reblogs on the first two chapters! They make my day, and I can only hope you enjoy everything that's to come!
> 
> This is the first chapter with art! All art will depict what the characters are wearing in that specific chapter.

As it turned out, Aziraphale was forced to admit that Warlock’s chosen descriptor of ‘flash bastard’ was... _appropriate_.

It was _never_ Aziraphale’s intention to be rude to anyone, no matter what they looked like or what boxes society might have deigned to place them into, but since he’d had the phrase swimming around in his head before he laid eyes on the man, his thoroughly distracted brain was finding it astronomically difficult to come up with another, less inflammatory replacement. 

_Maybe that isn’t him_ , he thought to himself glumly, in an extremely half-hearted attempt at convincing himself.

Again, the Universe proved snappy-- the loud, rumbling motorbike slowed as it idled down the street from _Haven_ ’s direction, finally rolling to a stop right in front of his shop, squeezing into a small gap right at the edge of the kerb between two sedans. 

Aziraphale, knowledgeable as he was, didn’t know much about motorbikes or vehicles in general, but he certainly had a surface-level appreciation for what was clearly a lovely, well-cared-for vintage motorbike, the distinctively-British Triumph logo emblazoned on the petrol tank. Even Aziraphale knew of the Triumph brand-- it was originally named Triumph Engineering, and had started all the way in the mid-1880s in Britain’s very own Coventry, now holding a proud status as one of the most famous motorbike companies in the UK. The bike in front of his shop had clearly been customised, the entirety of it painted in a mixture of glossy and matte blacks, save for the chromed exhaust pipes, spring forks, and a thin trim around the perimeter of the wheels, which had been illuminated in a bright shade of scarlet. 

The man now swinging his leg over the seat was equally clad in black, and Aziraphale barely had time to register him lifting a mirror-visored helmet off his head and unbuckling the black leather pannier strung to the side of the bike before the stranger had closed the distance between the street and his front door, beckoning Aziraphale’s attention with a rattling knock to the glass. 

Aziraphale opened the door immediately, more in a Pavlovian reaction to the knock than anything, and stared at the man in front of him.

The man stared back, or at least presumably he did, as his eyes were completely obscured by a pair of expensive-looking, round sunglasses. At night. In Aziraphale’s rather poorly-lit shop. 

“Er...Mr. Fell, I’m guessing?” the man started after a few awkward moments of silence, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a clear urge to break out in a grin.

Aziraphale startled. “Yes, sorry,” he answered quickly, shaking his head out of its reverie. “Mr...Crowley? Anthony J. Crowley?”

The man smiled then, a small thing, but Aziraphale noted a hint of sharp canine. “Just Crowley.”

“Crowley, then,” Aziraphale replied in a voice that he hoped didn’t betray too many of his bouncing nerves, returning the reserved smile with one of his own. He stepped aside from the doorway and held an arm out to direct his guest in. “As I’m sure young Warlock has told you, I am Aziraphale Fell, though Aziraphale is just fine.” He waited for Crowley to walk-- no, more like saunter-- past, before closing and locking the door once again and turning to offer a hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Crowley took a brief moment to shift a small, dark wooden box he was holding, then extended his own hand to accept the gesture. “Likewise,” he said in reply. His grip was firm, distinguished by the fact that his thin fingers were covered by the smooth, soft leather of a pair of dark riding gloves. The handshake was short and formal, and when it was over, Aziraphale finally had the opportunity to properly study the mysterious Crowley, whom Warlock had so surreptitiously sent his way. 

He looked to be around his late forties, similar to Aziraphale-- two or three inches taller, but a good deal leaner, cutting a sharp figure that was all clean lines and angles. He sported a messily (but what Aziraphale highly suspected was purposefully) tousled shock of astonishingly red hair that was cut short on the sides but left longer on the top, one rebellious lock flopping down onto his forehead. The sunglasses, he now noticed, had perforated silver side shields, which served to block any glimpse of the man’s eyes from the side as well as the dark lenses did from the front. There was a small serpent tattoo coiled delicately just in front of his right ear, the lobe of which was adorned with a single earring in the shape of a pair of antique shears. 

Crowley was dressed in all black: a well-worn leather motorbike jacket with a subtle snakeskin pattern at the shoulders atop a tight turtleneck that hugged his throat, snakeskin Chelsea boots, and extremely skinny trousers in an interesting waxed-texture denim. Upon closer inspection, Aziraphale could tell that the trousers were well-reinforced, presumably for riding safety. A pair of silver laurel-branch brooches circled the high neck of Crowley’s jumper, and the collar of his jacket was upturned at the back, showing off a flash of crimson underneath. 

Crowley unzipped his jacket, and it fell open to reveal a similarly crimson silk lining. The movement allowed Aziraphale to notice that his gloves were actually a contrasting red leather on the palms, while the black backs were cut with a gentle scoop that exposed a strip of pale wrist and what looked like the head of another snake tattoo peeking out from under the right sleeve of his jacket. 

He didn’t remove the gloves.

“Warlock didn’t tell me your first name,” Crowley continued, trailing behind Aziraphale as the latter led them through a cramped aisle to the workspace at the back of the shop. “Aziraphale. Like the angel? Your folks had a bit of a biblical streak.” It wasn’t a question.

Aziraphale chuckled as he went about the workshop, moving piles of books and other bits and bobs in an effort to somewhat clear the space. He really should have had the foresight to do this earlier. Aziraphale was terribly aware that most people found the layout of his shop rather chaotic and cluttered, the workshop even more so, although it worked for him and very rarely was anyone else in his workshop proper anyway. Even his restoration clients usually just met him for pickups at the front counter. Crowley was the first stranger in a few months to be back here.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “My siblings are named Gabriel and Michael. I don’t think they had quite the same primary school troubles as yours truly, though.”

Crowley huffed out a chuckle, the sharpness of his facial features softening into a more relaxed expression. “I feel you there. Kids can be fucking _pricks.”_

__

Aziraphale looked up at him in scandalised shock. “ _Crowley!_ ” 

__

The man raised both of his hands in a mock invitation, flashing the bright red leather covering his palms. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenged, oozing confidence. He seemed to look Aziraphale in the eye, although it was difficult to tell for sure with the glasses in the way.

__

Aziraphale paused, fighting the quirk of a smile that threatened to cross his lips. 

__

Finally he said, primly-- “I’ll tell you no such thing,” turning his nose up in the air with a harumph.

__

And oh, Crowley _laughed_ then, throwing his head back with the sound, his torso following the motion in a manner Aziraphale could only describe as picturesque, if in an angular, serpentine way. He had a strong urge to scold himself at the thought for some reason. 

__

“You’re a riot, Aziraphale Fell. I can see why Warlock likes you.” Crowley grinned, all mischief.

__

Aziraphale felt the hint of a blush rising on his face. “Yes, well--” he cleared his throat, “all jokes aside, I’m sure that aspect of my skill set is not the reason young Warlock arranged for our meeting tonight.”

__

Crowley’s smile faded, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment. “No,” he replied, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I suppose it isn’t.” 

__

Aziraphale had finished his tidying then, having forgone the workbench where the Black Forest clock and its innards still laid, in favor of a larger, stainless steel worktop in the corner, inlaid with a lightbox in its surface and a bright overhead lamp. He switched both on and shook out the quilted mat that had been crumpled haphazardly on the table from disuse, smoothing it out with his hands and spreading it neatly next to the lightbox. 

__

“If you would,” he said, gesturing to the wooden box Crowley held, and then to the table. “I’ve tea for the both of us in the kitchen; I’ll just pop out and get it while you set up your item, be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!” And with that, he bustled off in the direction of the mugs he had left on the counter earlier.

__

He found them exactly where he had left them, lowering the infusers into both mugs and hooking the chains on the rims, before carefully grabbing them and making his way slowly back to the workshop. 

__

He arrived to find Crowley standing next to the backlit worktop, finally pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his back pocket. The wooden box laid on the steel surface, open now to reveal a cushioned velvet interior with an empty dip where an object presumably laid previously. And next to the box, sitting atop the quilted mat, was--

__

“Good _Lord_ ,” Aziraphale yelped, almost spilling the mugs of tea. 

__

Crowley jumped, rushing forward to help him stabilize the two cups of very-hot liquid. “Here,” he said gruffly, taking them from his hands and placing them carefully on the least-cluttered side table he could find. 

__

“Black one’s yours,” Aziraphale said weakly, his brain only having the slightest room to register how _fitting_ it was that he’d happened to choose the black winged mug for Crowley from his variety of white to off-white, floral, gold-gilded, and otherwise delicate-looking vintage teacups. He hadn’t yet managed to take his eyes off the artifact currently sitting on his worktop.

__

He inched closer, slowly, until he was standing in front of the table, pulling his spectacles out of the breast pocket of his waistcoat and carefully pushing them up the bridge of his nose as he settled onto his tall wooden stool. Crowley hovered at the side of the table, a quiet, angular spectre nursing his black winged mug of tea.

__

Aziraphale had all but forgotten his own mug at this point, in favor of looking at the piece of artwork in front of him.

__

It was a [rosary bead](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/464298), the exterior carved from ivory in a beautiful scallop shell shape and mounted in silver-gilt, the edges etched with delicate, curling leaves. It was quite large in comparison to typical rosary nuts, which had earned their namesake from originally being carved either at the approximate size of, or rarely, from the actual pits of walnuts. This bead was a good deal larger, over 10 centimetres in diameter from Aziraphale’s initial glance. 

__

“Where on _earth_ did you acquire this, my dear?” he whispered, almost reverently. Looking at the rosary bead immediately took Aziraphale back to his Head Conservator days-- once upon a time, working with artifacts as old and precious as this was just routine for him. He never lost the joy of studying such marvelous works of art, of course, but he did so on most days and was used to the high calibre of objects that graced his laboratory worktops. 

__

Such things did not cross his path nearly so often these days, even if he considered the more mundane antiques in his shop just as worthy of his love and attention. 

__

Crowley ran a hand through his hair sheepishly. “Not permitted to say. Private collectors, client-company confidentiality, all that. Warlock should’ve told you?”

__

“Of course,” Aziraphale replied, remembering their phone conversation. “Forgive me, simply a rhetorical musing on my part.”

__

Crowley made an odd noise of understanding, most certainly not a word but getting the meaning across all the same. 

__

“So,” Crowley said, switching gears to continue in a more business-like fashion, “as per the source’s specifications, this piece is described as early 16th century, German-made, but Spanish in style.” He shifted his posture, tilting his head up slightly to recall the information. “I haven’t opened it to verify the polychromed interior. Was planning on leaving that to the experts,” he gestured at Aziraphale.

__

_Was planning on leaving it to Warlock_ , Aziraphale thought, wistfully. Aziraphale had no small amount of respect for his sharp young friend, who as it turned out was nothing less than a genuine prodigy in their trade, but the fact that he was still only five or so years into his career piqued Aziraphale’s curiosity even more about just who Anthony J. Crowley was, what the exact nature of he and Warlock’s relationship was, and how Warlock had developed an obviously already long-standing professional and personal relationship with someone in the private sector who dealt in acquisitions as high-level as this. 

__

The mystery deepened, and at the core of it was this black sliver of a man who was currently slouching nonchalantly in the middle of his workshop, an utterly indecipherable expression on his partially-masked face. The flashy fashion choices and unorthodox, rockstar-like attitude aside, it was clear that the man knew what he was doing, and had been doing it for quite some time. 

__

__

“Yes. Quite,” Aziraphale replied, forcing himself to break his gaze on the rosary bead and stand up from his stool. He approached the wooden roll-top desk on the other side of the room, where he usually handled his rare book restorations, and rummaged around in the top drawer until he found a fresh pair of white archival gloves, pulling them over his hands as he returned to the steel worktop. Crowley watched him silently, head turning ever so slightly to follow his movements.

__

Aziraphale flexed his fingers, settling them into the soft white gloves. “Let’s have a look then, shall we?”

__

He picked the rosary bead up, turning it over in his hands to meticulously inspect the condition of the ivory and soft sheen of the gilt-silver frame. Seeing nothing out of place just yet, Aziraphale thumbed open the clasp and opened the shell, the hinge swinging apart with surprising ease considering its supposed age. 

__

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed out. “It’s _stunning_.” He was too focused on admiring the inside of the bead to catch Crowley’s previously impassive face melt into a soft, close-lipped smile.

__

The left and right halves of the prayer bead were carved, respectively, with miniature depictions of the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Christ, the smooth ivory surface peeking through the skillful application of vibrant, iridescent paints in golds, deep reds, and soft browns and greens. The colours had survived remarkably well through the ages, each humanoid figure adorned with rich, draping fabrics, and even the buildings in the backdrops of both halves coming through in sharp relief. 

__

Aziraphale set the open bead back down on the table, turning to a side shelf to retrieve an old cherry-handled brass magnifying glass, and pulling a tartan handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to wipe the thin film of dust from its lens. 

__

“You know,” he began, holding the magnifying glass over the bead and peering intently through the thick, convex surface, “I may be an expert in antiques, but it’s not as if my little shop is equipped to run an IR spectroscopic aging analysis at the drop of a hat. It seems a rather poor substitute for the state-of-the-art laboratory Warlock has access to at the Society, for an item of this calibre.”

__

Crowley shifted his weight from one foot to another, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

__

“I don’t need to know the exact depth of craquelure in the paint, or which specific 16th-century elephant had its tusk stolen to carve the thing, Aziraphale. All my client and I need to know is whether or not we’ve been played by some tosser in a studio somewhere.”

__

Aziraphale tutted in disapproval at this brash response, not looking up. He decided not to divulge that he’d never been that talented with the scientifically-geared methods of forgery detection anyway, having often left those assignments to his younger colleagues. It had been something that drove Gabriel absolutely up the wall, but old-fashioned methods aside, Aziraphale never failed to deliver in the end.

__

“Well. No, it certainly wasn’t that.” 

__

Crowley merely raised one expressive, angular eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses, and waited for him to continue. 

__

Aziraphale brought his face even closer to the lens in concentration, the hand not holding the magnifying glass reaching to clasp the bead shut once again. “This ivory is hand-chiseled-- you can see the chisel marks quite clearly. And that’s in spite of a fairly significant rub patina, particularly around the clasp where one’s fingers would often make contact with it-- see the exposed ivory rings,” he murmured, indicating them with a gloved finger. “The whole piece is in remarkable condition for its age, truly-- but I’m spotting a natural craquelure along the contour of the ivory where it meets the silver-gilt-- forged cracks made with a knife cannot achieve the same sharpness in its corners.”

__

He focused on the precious metal frame now. “I can also spot some chipped particles in the gold gilt here-- an effect only possible through the fire gilding method used in earlier centuries. Modern gilding, in contrast, is typically done through--”

__

“Electrolysis,” Crowley finished, leaning against the wall with a slouch. “Fades, doesn’t chip.”

__

Aziraphale looked up in surprise. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”

__

“What else?”

__

Aziraphale looked down again through his magnifying glass. 

__

“This method of gilding was used quite frequently in Germany near the 16th century, so that certainly lines up with your information. But the scallop shell exterior-- distinctively Spanish, very much a medieval symbol with strong associations to St. James the Greater and in particular, the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. It’s said to represent Christian pilgrimage in general-- one would frequently wear or carry such an object on their journey, for example.”

__

“ _Having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth,_ ” Crowley said, tilting his head skyward, expression unreadable behind dark glass.

__

“Hebrews 11:13, from the 1611 King James translation,” Aziraphale said softly, looking at Crowley. 

__

His gaze lingered, a curtain of silence falling in the space between them. The air suddenly felt charged, heavy with something that Aziraphale couldn’t place. He wished, desperately, that Crowley would look at him, or say something, anything-- anything to distract him from the sudden tightness that was welling up in his chest. The other man was still looking away, as if uttering the bible verse had whisked him to somewhere far away and forgotten. 

__

“Oh! I-I have an ultraviolet lamp around here somewhere, where has it gone,” Aziraphale started, if only to break the silence, looking about the cluttered workshop in no particular direction-- “we can use it if you’d like to double-check the ivory’s fluorescence in comparison to common imitation synthetics, although I sincerely doubt that a forger with the talent to achieve such accuracy in the craquelure and patina patterns would then lapse so obviously on the material itself...” He trailed off, knowing that he was rambling now, but he couldn’t think of an alternative, and the night was growing deeper outside the walls of his shop--

__

“That’s unnecessary, and you know it,” Crowley interrupted. Aziraphale could have sworn he detected a hint of mercy behind the bluntness of the statement. Crowley pushed himself off the wall and stretched briefly, then moved to zip his jacket back up, folding the lapels over his chest so the zipper could be pulled all the way up. It was a telltale signal that their short, odd little encounter was coming to an end.

__

Aziraphale took the hint, gingerly lifting the rosary bead and settling it back into the velvet cushioning of its box, making sure it was snug before closing the lid and securing the clasps with care. He wondered if he would ever see the piece again. Probably not, he thought to himself ruefully. 

__

“I suppose it is,” he said, stripping off his cotton gloves and holding the box out to Crowley. “All looks to be well. Your client will be pleased, I’m certain. The words felt strange on his tongue-- transactional, instead of the easy banter they’d been exchanging before. He felt like he had lost a friend, which was a ludicrous notion, considering he had just met the man less than an hour ago. 

__

Crowley merely gave a noncommittal hum in response. He reached into his back pocket to retrieve his riding gloves, pulling the black and red leather taut over his fingers again before extending a hand to accept the box. He had never touched the box or the bead with his bare hands, Aziraphale noticed. 

__

Aziraphale was keenly aware of Crowley sauntering along behind him as he led them from the workshop back to the front door. He opened it to a quiet tinkle of the overhead bell, and looked at Crowley, fidgeting ever-so-slightly with his hands.

__

“Well, it was ever so nice to meet you, Crowley. And a genuine treat to be trusted to examine such a lovely piece.”

__

“Right,” Crowley muttered in reply, drawing a business card out of his jacket pocket. “You can send your invoice here. I’ll have it paid ASAP.”

__

Aziraphale looked at the card, a smooth matte black thing which was devoid of a name or company, but listed a Royal Mail P.O. box, a phone number, and a thoroughly nondescript email address letterpressed in silver. 

__

He made no move to take it. “No.”

__

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up higher than he would have expected possible above his sunglasses. “Excuse me?” His hand, with the card in it, still hovered in the air between them.

__

Aziraphale crossed his arms. “I said, no. I met you tonight as a favour to a friend, and that’s that,” he said, meeting the dark lenses of Crowley’s glasses with a steeled gaze. “And I won’t have any insistence otherwise-- I’ll have you know I’m quite stubborn.” 

__

Crowley stared at him for a moment, then sighed, dropping his hand. The exhale seemed to deflate him in more ways than one, loosening his posture into his trademark slouch and softening the hard lines on his angular face. 

__

“Fine, whatever,” he said, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his head before shooting Aziraphale a glare that was surely meant to be intimidating. Aziraphale just looked at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow of his own. “But I’ll have you know that I’m only letting up because it’s for Warlock.” 

__

“Whatever pleases you, my dear,” he replied demurely, reaching down to brush a speck of dust from the bottom of his waistcoat. 

__

“Take the card anyway. In case you change your mind,” Crowley huffed, practically throwing it at him as he walked out the door, the weight of the thick cardstock substantial enough that instead of fluttering, it landed neatly in Aziraphale’s grasp as he instinctively shot out a hand to snatch it.  
When he looked up, Crowley had paused a few feet past the threshold, free hand now shoved into the tight pocket of his jeans and shoulders hunched, his back to Aziraphale. Pedestrians passed him by on the sidewalk, a black shape in the glittering evening light. 

__

“Thanks, angel,” he said, so quietly that Aziraphale almost missed it. 

__

And then he was lowering his helmet back over his flame-red hair, swinging his leg over the seat of his motorbike, and rumbling away into the night.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gist of this AU is that everyone is incredibly smart, but simultaneously share a single brain cell when it comes to emotions.
> 
> Researching ivory forgery detection techniques for this chapter was fascinating. I have zero expertise on this stuff but I try my best to do detailed research, and I hope it reads as convincing! It's one thing to look into how Aziraphale might do his job, but Crowley's side of things is much more nebulous and likely not at all how a professional art thief would operate, haha. 
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley reflects on his meeting with one Aziraphale Fell in the aftermath of the Berlin heist, and gets a new assignment.

Crowley’s phone alarm went off at an entirely ungodly hour, which in his case, meant about ten in the morning. He groaned, rolling over in his king-sized bed and burying his face in the pillow, shooting out a hand with the intention of turning the alarm off, but only managing to knock it off his bedside table. 

The blasted thing continued its infernal blaring from the floor, which was far down enough that Crowley, for all his limberness, couldn’t reach it without being forced to extricate himself from the cocoon of blankets he was currently wrapped in. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and trying in vain to ignore the sound for a few seconds before relenting and wriggling out of his nest to touch his bare feet to the cool, dark floorboards of his bedroom.

He bent over and snatched his phone up from the floor, giving it a quick once-over to ensure the fall hadn’t caused any damage, before shutting off the alarm. Sweet, sweet silence filled the room again, save for the soft chirp of birdsong and the distant noises of London coming from outside his window. A peaceful autumn morning.

For a brief moment Crowley considered not giving a shit and curling himself back into bed. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he did such a thing. Unfortunately, today was no ordinary morning.

It was handoff day. Crowley sighed. 

A week and change had passed since his impromptu meeting with Aziraphale Fell. The days immediately following were a whirlwind of urgent calls to Adam and Pepper, hashing out of timelines, and narrowly sidestepping questions and demands from Bee. 

The period between jobs was always the bane of Crowley’s existence-- for all the risks he knew to be involved with his ridiculous career as a professional art thief, in his opinion, the stealing bit was actually the easiest part. Scouting locations, planning logistics, evaluating the physical and technological requirements needed to pull off a high-stakes heist with the lowest risk possible-- those were challenges that Crowley understood, that he relished. He was very aware of the fact that the Universe had gifted him with a sharp mind, a silver tongue, and significant athletic ability, and those were all things he could _control_. As long as the task was his, and his alone.

The period between jobs was rather outside of his control. And thus, it was the time his anxieties struck.

Crowley tapped his foot impatiently as he brushed his teeth, still blinking the sleep from his eyelids. Splashing warm water across his face helped to relax him a bit better. He dried his face off with a crisp black towel, then took a moment to scrutinize it in the mirror before unzipping his toiletries bag and drawing his straight razor out from its slim leather case. 

The razor was ebony-handled and inlaid with a minimalist silver stripe down the side. Crowley flicked open the blade with one hand and rummaged through his bag again with the other, pulling out a tin of shaving soap and his brush. He took a breath, deliberately reminding himself to slow the anxious tapping of his foot to a stop as he popped the lid of the tin and gradually lathered the soap over his jaw and cheekbones. There were consequences to having nervous tics when moving a sharp blade flush across your skin. Crowley knew this from experience.

He drew the razor across his face in smooth, controlled motions, lining up each pass with the inhale and exhale of his breathing. The rhythm of it was soothing, grounding-- paring his heart rate down in tandem with the stubble on his jaw. When he was done, he rinsed his face, massaging his jaw to check for any missed spots before finally looking in the mirror again and this time seeing a Crowley that he would be more satisfied presenting to the general public. He washed his razor and dried it with a clean cloth before neatly tucking everything back into his toiletries bag. He spent some time on his hair then, threading just a bit of pomade through the tousled locks, twisting and ruffling a few errant pieces before deciding he was pleased and giving it a quick burst of hairspray to keep it in place. 

Crowley returned to his bedroom, sliding open the flush, hidden wall panel of his closet, and considered his outfit for the day. Handoff days presented an interesting conundrum-- he had the urge to put in less effort because he had no interest in impressing any of his coworkers, but at the same time, he always felt like maybe he should put in even _more_ effort, exclusively to annoy the lot of them. 

In the end, he settled on something fairly utilitarian: a black henley and shiny patent leather lace-up boots, though at the last minute he decided to trade his original choice of basic black skinny jeans for one of his leather pairs, purely in anticipation for the look of disgust on Hastur’s face. His sunglasses he grabbed from their place on his nightstand, unfolding them with a flick of his wrist and perching them on top of his head for now, before trundling out of the bedroom and down the hall.

Crowley stopped by his sparsely-decorated office first; he opened the blackout curtains along the far wall to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows and a stunning view of the city, then turned to the large glass terrarium in the corner.

“Morning, old girl,” he said under his breath, peering inside.

Crawley, his prized red-bellied black snake, was currently basking indulgently in the larger of her two water bowls, her body flattened out to maximum effect to soak in the heat from the UV lamp clipped to the top of the tank. She was fast asleep, with not a care in the world. Crowley smiled fondly, taking the opportunity to quietly open the top hatch and give the reptile a few tender strokes on the top of her head. He then used a spray bottle to provide the cage a quick misting before dutifully leaving her to her slumber. It would be feeding time in a few days, and while Crawley was generally a very polite old girl, he knew better than to tempt fate after caring for such a potently-venomous species of snake for so long. 

He gently adjusted her heat lamp and, satisfied that all was well, wandered off to the kitchen in search of coffee.

It wasn’t until he was leaning idly at his kitchen counter, sipping at his compulsory morning cup of French roast (black, of course), that his brain decided it could no longer hold back the proverbial elephant in the room. 

_Aziraphale._

Their meeting the Friday before last had been a disaster. Well, no, the meeting itself had gone over well; Warlock had really pulled through with that introduction, veritably saving Crowley’s sorry arse, although one could argue that if Warlock had been in London like usual, his arse wouldn’t have needed saving at all.

In fact, Warlock _not_ being here was the very reason Crowley now had a problem. A problem named Aziraphale Fell. 

He had driven down to London Soho that night, his spoils from Berlin in tow, with zero presupposition on what he expected Warlock’s exalted Mr. Fell to be like. The shopfront of _A.Z. Fell & Co.: Antiques, Restorations & Repairs_ was innocent enough, although Crowley had managed a glance at the hours of operation placard in the window on his way to the door, and it had bewildered him. They’d been confusing at best and maddeningly indecipherable at worst, and Crowley’s predictions had shifted to expect someone very eccentric indeed. 

And Aziraphale _was_ eccentric, he’d been on the money with that, but everything about the man was...unexpected, to say the least. They’d traded a brief staring contest at the door, in which Crowley had the opportunity to drink the man in: around the same age as him, a few inches shy of Crowley’s own height, but with a broad-shouldered, stocky build. Aziraphale was made of rounded corners and soft planes, the complete anathema to Crowley’s jagged edges. 

Aziraphale’s hair was brilliantly blond, so pale that it bordered on white, and Crowley would have assumed the colour was achieved via bleach if not for the fact that there’d been no hint of dark roots whatsoever, and he conceded that here was a man with a natural hair colour that was even rarer than his own astonishingly bright red. 

Aziraphale had eyes the colour of a stormy sea, an utterly cherubic face (how could Crowley’s tap-dancing-around-the-bust-of-Jesus-Christ hallucination from his flight have actually been so _accurate_ ), and a pair of ridiculously old-fashioned half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. His clothing was even worse-- a crisp white arrow collar shirt with interesting billow-cut sleeves and soft beige trousers, topped with a taupe-coloured waistcoat pinstriped with delicate, iridescent golden threads. He also sported a pair of well-worn, light brown cap-toe brogues, a three-point folded white pocket square, what looked like the chain of a gold pocket watch in the pocket of his waistcoat, and an honest-to-god _tartan_ bow tie. 

The whole affair should’ve looked ridiculously out of place on anyone in modern London. It suited Aziraphale terribly well. 

Crowley knew himself to be a rather flashy dresser, but his only thought at the moment was that he’d quite possibly met his match. He’d noticed how the mother-of-pearl buttons on Aziraphale’s waistcoat matched his cufflinks perfectly. And when Aziraphale turned around to lead them to the workspace at the back of the shop, Crowley cursed himself internally at the large, diamond-shaped cutout on the back of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, revealing an inlay of shining golden fabric, brocaded in an intricate damask pattern. Absolutely ludicrous.

Crowley already knew then that these were treacherous waters. But then, oh, then, they’d started talking, and Aziraphale was...brilliant. Charming. Fussy and overly polite, as Crowley would have expected from the man’s appearance, but the bit where he had refused to denounce Crowley’s statement that kids could be pricks revealed just a hint of bastard underneath the surface that had Crowley laughing more genuinely than he had in years. 

He was of course competent at evaluating the rosary bead and thoroughly knowledgeable about the piece’s original purposes and symbolic meanings, but that was a given from someone of Warlock’s direct referral. 

There had been a much more arresting moment in the middle of that process though, where Aziraphale had opened the bead with gentle, careful fingers, and positively _glowed_ in admiration at the sight of the painted carvings inside. Crowley had found himself unable to stop the soft smile that crossed his face then, eternally grateful that Aziraphale was too preoccupied to notice. He had never seen a human being embody the word _luminous_ before that moment, and wondered if Aziraphale was even aware that he gave off such an effect. 

The vast scope of Aziraphale’s intellect was obvious, but erudite people were nothing new to Crowley. The difference was that Aziraphale _felt_. He felt and expressed with his entire being, whether it be utter admiration for a priceless work of art, huffing indignation at Crowley’s crude remarks, or a soft sigh of recognition at the quotation of 17th-century scripture. Aziraphale had no ulterior motives. He just _loved_. Aziraphale was selfless and unabashedly passionate, further cemented by the fact that he had refused to invoice Crowley (Crowley had been rather impressed at this move; people generally found him rather intimidating, but Aziraphale had showed no hesitation in standing his ground). The work really had been its own reward.

The problem at hand, Crowley surmised now, was that he wanted to be Aziraphale’s _friend_. And that was a precarious thought. Crowley didn’t _do_ friends, not really-- one of the quirks of being a professional thief was that it came with frequent threats of danger, instability, and the inevitability of having to constantly watch one’s back. He held the people he worked with at arm’s length, for the obvious reason of protecting himself. He tried not to get attached to people he didn’t work with, for the sake of protecting _them_. Everyone had emotional baggage, sure, but he had to commend himself on the fact that ‘ _Hi, I’m Anthony J. Crowley, I like Freddie Mercury and long walks on the beach, and just a disclaimer, pretty much every month I narrowly avoid landing myself a life sentence in Her Majesty’s quod_ ’ was probably not a line oft heard.

For the most part, this particular perk of his job was actually a boon to Crowley-- he had no family, his parents having passed away when he was quite young and him being an only child, he liked being alone, and never held great interest in making friends. Crowley had also known he was primarily interested in men from a very young age, and, having grown up in the 70s, this didn’t do him any favors in the interpersonal relationships arena beyond a couple of short-lived romantic escapades. Romance never held a terrible amount of interest for him on the whole, anyway. 

Crowley had up until now been pretty content with going through life on his own, knowing that if he wanted a casual outing at a bar or a warm body to share his bed, there were easily accessible ways to make it happen. He had plenty of acquaintances, but he didn’t know if he could call many of them friends, except maybe Warlock (who wasn’t a friend so much as a sort of unofficial ward, really). So his sudden, specific desire to _befriend_ Aziraphale was a rather disturbing feeling. 

Emotional issues aside, he couldn’t ignore the fact that befriending Aziraphale was objectively an extremely dangerous idea. The more Aziraphale knew about Crowley, the more Crowley’s cover would be in jeopardy-- Aziraphale might not work in the museum circuit anymore, but he was still affiliated with the Society and obviously a smart, friendly man whom members of the larger arts community would likely still be in contact with. Crowley didn’t know how long he could skirt that line before something slipped.

Even worse was the fact that the more Aziraphale knew about Crowley, the more Aziraphale risked being the victim of collateral damage from Crowley’s world if Crowley happened to fuck up somewhere down the line. That would be a danger completely outside Aziraphale’s consent, and Crowley couldn’t bear the thought of any harm coming to the man because of things he was unaware of, things about him.

But he had also never met anyone he wanted to befriend more, and couldn’t bear the thought of just...disappearing, and never seeing Aziraphale again, which had honestly been his original plan.

Hence, disaster.

Crowley’s phone trilled from atop the counter, once again jolting him out of a stupor. His eleven o’clock alarm, signaling that it was time for him to get going before he missed the appointment he needed to tend to before going to headquarters in the afternoon. 

He pushed himself off of the counter and sighed, setting his coffee mug in the sink and filling it with water to wash later. It was only with extreme effort that he managed to convince himself to stop thinking about Aziraphale for now in order to take care of the matters at hand. Crowley grabbed his red-trimmed wool coat, wallet, and keys from the rack next to the front door, knocked his sunglasses down to their rightful place in front of his eyes, and slunk out of his flat, the door closing behind him with a faint click.

\------------------------------

“Pepper, you’re a damned _miracle_ worker,” Crowley exclaimed, leaning forward on his elbow to smile fondly at her from across the table.

“I know,” she said with a smirk, pushing the small cloth-wrapped package towards him across the vinyl surface of the dingy diner booth they were seated in. “You’d best remember it, too.”

“Crowley, stop encouraging her,” Adam piped up from next to Pepper, voice muffled by the enormous breakfast sandwich he was currently attacking with the fervor of a man half-starved. “She’s already insufferable enough as it is.”

Pepper swatted at him with the flimsy laminated menu. It made a wobbling sound before hitting home, a yelp of complaint escaping Adam as he sprayed bread crumbs all over the place.

“ _Oi!_ ” Crowley exclaimed, jumping back in his seat. “Watch it, you little devil spawn.” He made a show of brushing off his pristine henley while shooting Adam a stern look. Pepper sat next to him, unaffected by the flying debris and looking extremely pleased with herself. 

Adam wiped up the crumbs but didn’t bother to apologize, merely rolling his eyes at Crowley’s diva display and going right back to inhaling his sandwich. 

“Why’re you here anyway, Adam?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow. “You weren’t involved with the Berlin job. And where’s Wensley?”

“Sleeping,” Adam replied in between gulps of bread, egg, and sausage. “He’s been up for _days_ working on that,” he said, nodding at the package Pepper had just given Crowley. “Just finished this morning, and pretty much catapulted himself straight into bed after. Pepper said she would come alone, but I was hungry so I decided to tag along, plus I got to ride in the old Bronco, so.” He shrugged. 

Crowley frowned. He’d known that this job was a demanding one; he made sure that the Them were aware of that before agreeing to work with him on it, but he still didn’t like to see them overworked. Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian weren’t kids anymore, not really, but Crowley had met them when they were yet to be of age and he still held a sort of protective fondness over them in that way. Not that he would say that to them out loud, especially not to Adam or Pepper. 

(He experienced a brief moment of wonder when he thought about the fact that for someone who didn’t have very much interest in making friends, he sure seemed to have a lot of wayward children under his wing. Crowley wondered what a therapist would have to say about that.)

He’d have to send Wensley a thank-you present. Maybe a nice antique abacus. Or a gift basket full of artfully arranged office supplies. 

“What about you, then?” he said, turning his cocked eyebrow in Pepper’s direction. “Have you been getting enough shut-eye?”

Pepper stuck his tongue out at him. “I’m twenty-six years old, Crowley, I’m not a _child_. I can handle burning the midnight oil for a few days.”

Crowley leaned back in his seat, the cracked faux leather creaking underneath his weight, as he took a sip of his very mediocre coffee. “So no, then.”

Pepper at least had the decency to look sheepish at that. 

“Well. The logistics were a little tricky to work out in such a short timeframe. Had to call in a few favors from Madrid, make sure we weren’t leaving a paper trail, you know, the usual. No use being sloppy, otherwise why ask us at all, right?”

She had a point. After all, he could’ve just taken his quarry straight to Bee and as far as she was concerned, no extra effort needed. But it was the principle of the thing. 

Crowley sighed again. He was doing a lot of that this morning. 

“Alright,” he said, waving his hand towards them in a shooing motion, “off you lot go, then. I’ll take it from here.”

“What!” Pepper exclaimed indignantly. “No fair! You haven’t even given us the play-by-play from Berlin! The only reason I even do anything for you is for your stories, you know that, right?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, echoing the motion with his whole head so that they could tell he was doing it even with his sunglasses on. 

“Rain check. Go get some bloody kip first.” 

“I feel _fine_ \--”

“Pepper,” Crowley warned, with a tone of finality to his voice.

Pepper grumbled what sounded suspiciously like ‘ _you’re not my mum_ ’ under her breath, crossing her arms in annoyance. It was cute. She would almost certainly murder him if he told her that. 

Crowley drained his coffee then, and clunked the mug down on the table just as Adam crumpled the now-empty wax paper of his sandwich into a ball between his fingers. 

“We’ll have a proper do next time, at my place or something” Crowley promised, standing up from his seat and slipping his coat back on, remembering to pick up the cloth-wrapped package afterwards.. “Wine, snacks, the works. You wouldn’t want Wensley to miss out on the story, would you?” 

Pepper considered this in a very serious fashion. It _was_ another opportunity to drive her Bronco out again, and she still had to show Crowley the new chromed mirror caps she had just installed. 

“Fine,” she finally relented, jabbing a finger at him as she and Adam followed Crowley up to the front counter. “But you have to provide the snacks. And they have to be the good ones. No Tesco bargain aisle biscuits.”

Crowley chuckled as he handed a few crisp ten-pound notes over to the young waitress at the till to pay for their food, waving away the change when it was offered. “Alright, alright. Only the best for Her Royal Highness.” 

They exited the diner to a gust of chilly late-autumn air. 

“Are you getting a new assignment today, Crowley?” Adam asked.

“Think so, yeah. Pretty steady year so far,” Crowley replied, turning up the collar of his coat to protect his neck from the wind as Pepper and Adam zipped up their jackets. “I’ll make sure Bee doesn’t change the timeline this time.” 

“Yeah. It was especially hard on Wensley,” Adam mused. “And Warlock, will he be back in London for this next one?”

“S’far as I know,” Crowley said, scraping the toe of his boot on the sidewalk, trying deliberately not to dwell on the glum feeling in his heart at the thought. 

“I miss Warlock. You should invite him to our thing,” Pepper said, stifling a yawn with her hand.

“If you like,” he said, a smile slowly creeping onto his face. “But forget that for now, let Adam take you home to bed. Don’t even think about driving that beautiful car half-asleep, either.”

Pepper glared at him, true to form, but begrudgingly handed a visibly excited Adam her keys, threatening bodily harm if anything happened to the car along the way. Crowley turned away then, setting off for his own Bentley, which was parked in the opposite direction down the street from Pepper’s Ford Bronco.

“Thanks for lunch, Crowley!” Adam called after him with an enthusiastic wave. “Phone us when you have the details for the next job!” 

Crowley lazily raised a hand in acknowledgement without turning around, and continued his saunter away.

\------------------------------

It took approximately seven minutes and forty-nine seconds for Crowley to make the short drive from the small, out-of-the-way diner in Whitechapel that he had met Pepper and Adam at to a glossy, modern high-rise in the City proper (his phone would have claimed twelve minutes, but his phone didn’t understand the, ah, defining characteristics of Crowley’s driving).

The headquarters of the Prince Consulting Firm sat on Fleet Street just a stone’s throw from the River Thames, smack dab in the company of some of the most prestigious financial institutions in England, and the world. It was a towering obelisk of glass and steel that cut a severe silhouette into the London skyline, the building’s physical presence as imposing as the company’s metaphorical crash-landing into the ranks of London’s business elite a few decades prior. 

At its surface, Prince Consulting was a company that specialised in investment consultation within the foreign exchange market. Its founder, Lucille Prince, had taken the London finance sector by storm in the 70s, after spending the first half of the decade making a dramatic shift from brilliant art historian to one of the most successful independent stock traders in England. She had no educational background in economics or business, no precedence for such things in her upbringing whatsoever, but still managed to sail her way to the top with nothing but uncanny instincts and a distinctly unique flavour of ruthless, hungry ambition. She became personally wealthy alarmingly fast, and, having grown bored of only playing with her own resources, moved onto brokerage and consulting, starting the company just shy of the year 1980. Unsurprisingly, the firm flourished, and now enjoyed its position as a premier provider of investment consultation services to a wide spread of London’s elite, from celebrities, high-profile politicians, major corporations, and the like.

This was on the surface.

The lesser-known part of Lucille Prince’s story was that she had also grown bored of consulting and the day-to-day humdrum of making more money for the world’s one percent. Profit was always good, but to her, someone who was exceedingly wealthy already, money itself held no meaning beyond what one could _do_ with it, and it seemed she had found herself helming a company that, for all intents and purposes, merely spent all day telling people how best to shuffle money cache A around in hopes of achieving money cache B in the future. After some years, it all began to feel rather...inane.

During this time, Lucille Prince had never stopped indulging in her previous affinity for art and art history. She remained an active participant in the London art world, becoming a generous patron of many major institutions and amassing an impressive private art collection at her sprawling estate in Knightsbridge through auctions, estate sales, and the like. By this point in time, interest in her company’s services had soared and Lucille herself had a rejection rate of almost 95% to mitigate the demand, so prospective clients began to get...creative. 

The turning point was when one fateful day in 1983, the chief executive of some trend-chasing advertising empire had sent his assistant along to Prince’s offices bearing an extraordinary gift in an attempt to sway her decision on his application for consultation: [an original 1864 Monet pencil sketch](https://www.chronogram.com/hudsonvalley/sketches-of-monet/Content?oid=2172756) of boats docked at an idyllic village-side port-- _The Port at Tongues_ , to be exact.

It was a mistake on the executive’s part, that was for sure. Because Lucille Prince was not an idiot; she was an avid fan of Monet and she knew for a fact that _The Port at Tongues_ was _supposed_ to be on display at the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, Massachusetts, not floating around freely to be used as a bargaining chip. So the situation at hand was that this prospective client had somehow _acquired_ this piece for her. This executive in particular was not a stranger to Prince; he’d been trying for years to get in her good graces to no avail, and none of his previous gifts had even come close to the calibre of this one. She knew by now that he wasn’t smart enough to pinpoint her partiality to Monet, let alone devise a plan to pilfer a genuine work from an institution, so what set this gift apart from all the previous ones? 

She had seen it then, so clearly, in the mischievous glint in the eyes of the young, blonde assistant sitting across from her in her penthouse office. Lilith, the young woman had said her name was. Her expression looked neutral from the outside, but upon noticing Lucille’s moment of realization, it had shifted ever-so-subtly from innocent obedience to knowing avarice in an instant. Lucille Prince had leaned forward and smiled viciously at her then, the framework of a brand new venture already laying down its foundations in her mind.

That was 1983. 

It was now the year 2019, and Anthony J. Crowley was pulling his Bentley down the ramp to the security gate of Prince’s underground parking garage. He rolled down the window and reached out an arm to tap his employee access badge against the RFID reader, expecting the barrier to lift immediately like usual. 

It didn’t. He looked up expectantly, raising an errant eyebrow. 

“Sir, if you could remove your sunglasses for the security camera, please,” an unfamiliar voice said to his right.

 _Ah._ It was a new security guard. Made sense, since the old day guard he was used to seeing was a cranky old bat who’d been there since way before Crowley’s time, and was starting to get on in her age. This new one was a young, thin-looking brunette man, barely twenty and probably fresh out of orientation, if the earnestness and nervousness in his voice indicated anything. His shiny new nametag read ‘Dave’. 

“Myeahhh, rather not,” Crowley said, angling his head just slightly to glance at the young man with a stern expression.

“S-sorry?” the guard, Dave, replied, clearly never having encountered such a refusal before and at a loss as to what to say next.

“Look,” Crowley said, “I’ll swipe again. Maybe actually check the photo this time when it flashes in.” He reached out the window and tapped his card against the reader once more, then looked up and flashed the guard the same devilish grin he knew was on the photo linked to his ID, glasses and all. 

“Oh,” the guard said, his face falling when he saw the photo, along with a not-insignificant amount of embarrassment, undoubtedly due to the quite high rank of security clearance that would have popped up next to it. “Apologies, Mr. Crowley, sir,” he stammered out, scrambling to push the button that lifted the gate. “Please proceed.”

“Ta, Dave-o,” Crowley said, already facing forward and stepping on the gas before the arm was even all the way up. 

He pulled into his parking spot on the top level with a screech and cut the engine, before taking a final deep breath in preparation. 

“Nothing you haven’t done before.” It wasn’t, but it was the first time anyone outside the usual suspects had been in any way involved in one of his jobs, which added an extra level of anxiety to the equation. He tried to keep the thought of Aziraphale out of his head. 

He checked his watch. It was a quarter to one, and he needed to get on. He opened his glove compartment, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves and slipped them on, before picking up the cloth-wrapped package also nestled inside. He undid the twine around it carefully until the burlap fabric loosened and fell away, revealing the same dark, wooden box that he had presented to Aziraphale. He opened it briefly to check that the rosary bead was still safely inside, then stepped out of the safety of his Bentley, locking the door behind him and making his way to the lift. 

The Prince headquarters skyscraper was interesting. It was sixty-six stories tall; the main lift shaft ran along the east facade of the building, going from the four levels of subterranean parking garage through the lobby all the way up to the sixtieth floor, and was made entirely of glass above ground level. Crowley took this lift all the way up to the sixtieth floor, admiring the stellar view of London that it gave him until it deposited him into an expansive outdoor terrace. 

The terrace was sleek and modern, a large open space lined with lush greenery in concrete planters and a distinctly brutalist fountain, split in half by a central walkway. Fire pits and tables dotted the left side of the area, surrounded by comfortable patio furniture and lounge chairs. It was near lunchtime still, so employees could be seen eating and chatting at the tables, or lined up at the various food and drink stalls along the perimeter. To the right of the path sat two tennis courts and a grass pitch marked with delineations for both football and rugby, each surrounded by fencing to prevent stray balls from entering the dining space or, god forbid, getting flung off the side of the building. 

Crowley crossed the walkway to a set of revolving glass doors that led to a second lobby. This was where Prince’s executive-level offices began. It was equally as sleek and modern as its ground-floor counterpart; the floor was paved in shining black marble and minimalist geometric LED lighting hung from the high, terraced ceiling. One of the impeccably-dressed receptionists looked up and gave him a curt nod of recognition, which Crowley returned. 

He crossed the room to a second set of lifts, waiting for another employee to take his trip before entering one alone. Then he lowered his sunglasses and leaned forward, angling his face towards the discreetly-installed retina scanner just above the button panel. It blinked for a moment to register his iris, before the speaker overhead beeped in approval.

“Crowley, Anthony J.,” said an automated voice. “Access granted.”

It was then that a previously hidden, flush steel panel slid open, revealing a second set of floor buttons that mirrored the first, except all followed by the letter F. Crowley pressed the button for floor 65F. “Floor 65F,” the automated voice chirped. “Office, Beatrice Prince.” Crowley stood back and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

The F floors were Prince Consulting Firm’s best-kept secret. When the skyscraper was built, it had been notable in architectural circles for not having any windows along its western facade, save for the penthouse, which housed Lucille Prince’s personal office. Instead, Prince had requested that the tall expanse of steel be used as a canvas for one the world’s most ambitious pieces of corporate art-- an extraordinarily detailed iron and steel relief sculpture of the fallen archangel Lucifer, the devil’s giant body and feathered wings stretching the entire sixty-five-story expanse. It had taken years to complete, and was a magnificent sight to behold. 

So, it made sense that no one, employees or otherwise, could see in or out from the western facade. But little known to most of the world was that a slim vertical cross section of the entire building was blocked off from the rest: sixty-five thin, hidden floors that mirrored their public counterparts, and were given the subtitle ‘F’. 

This was where Lucille Prince’s true empire operated: the illegal acquisition and sale of priceless art and antiques, exclusively in service of the black market. 

The lift reached floor 65F with a ding, and the wall panel opposite the door slid open, revealing a reverse-facing set of doors that opened in turn. He stepped out into a windowless waiting room furnished with a few severe-looking black benches and end tables, a corridor leading to a stairwell in the far right corner and a frosted glass door leading to a large office on the left. A secretary sat at her desk next to the office door. 

“Mr. Crowley,” the young woman (Abigail, Crowley thought her name was) nodded. “You’re just in time for your dropoff. Ms. Prince should be just finishing up with Mr. Delanoche now.”

As if on cue, the glass door swung open, and out sidled Ligur. 

Ligur Delanoche had dark skin, short-cropped natural hair, and interesting eyes that seemed to change colour every time Crowley saw them. He was wearing his customary grimy-looking brown leather coat and ratty knitted scarf combo that would no doubt pair nicely with Hastur’s usual disgusting tan trench coat, stringy sand-coloured hair, and crusty fingerless gloves. Crowley hated both of them intensely.

Ligur shot him a snarl even more vicious than usual. He was evidently still mad at Crowley for ditching Hastur at the airport a fortnight ago, even though Crowley had claimed to Bee that he’d missed her text because his phone had been off from the flight, and there was no evidence that could prove the contrary. All of them knew what had transpired, they just couldn’t do anything about it. 

Crowley grinned at Ligur, giving him a casual salute with two gloved fingers. He walked past Ligur into the office, and shut the door behind him. 

“Lord Beelzebub,” he announced cheerily, spreading his arms wide. “An honor, as always.”

Beatrice Prince, or Beelzebub, as was her coded moniker in the context of the company, was Lucille Prince’s eldest daughter, and heir to the Prince empire. Bee (as people familiar with her called her) was, from a very young age, expected to someday juggle the enormous legacy of Prince Consulting proper, _and_ head the clandestine art trafficking side of the business.

The two halves of Prince were almost completely segregated from each other. The employees who worked in the F levels generally had no knowledge of the affairs of the investment consulting side, and to the employees of the investment consulting side, well, the employees and affairs of the F levels might as well not exist. 

Bee, however, operated as Lucille’s second-in-command in both, acting as COO of the consulting company, as well as the overarching fencing and assignment coordinator of the art trafficking side, watching over the movements of all of their field and logistical operations. She had dozens of direct reports, of which Crowley was one. Every assignment he got began and ended with her. Barring Lucille Prince herself, she was the only member of the company who had hands in both sides. Bee worked day in, day out, and hardly ever took breaks; Crowley had to admit it was not a position he envied at all. 

Bee herself cut a very small, yet extremely imposing figure. She was a slip of a thing, at just five-foot-one, but had a no-nonsense, ink-black pixie haircut and eyes cut from pure steel. She was always wearing one of a variety of severely tailored monochrome pantsuits, accessorized with sharp ribbon ties and suspiciously fly-themed jewelry, which Crowley supposed fit her moniker. Today, she had a pair of disturbingly realistic silver fly brooches pinned on her lapels. 

“Don’t call me that, _Serpent_ ,” Bee snapped from behind her large, monolithic-looking black desk. “Do you have it?”

“Straight to business, are we?” Crowley said, flopping into the chair in front of her desk, a square, black thing that he suspected had been chosen purposefully for how uncomfortable it was. He tried not to let this show. Bee’s own chair, a horned, thorny-looking black iron thing, also looked hideously uncomfortable, so maybe it was just her thing.

“Of course,” she replied in her trademark monotone, annoyed tone. “Is the job complete?”

“Indeed it is,” Crowley proclaimed, placing the wooden box down on her desk and lifting open the lid with a flourish. There sat the rosary bead in all of its silver-gilt glory. “I imagine ol’ _Thien_ will be pleased, what with their _first-class_ enthusiasm and all.”

Bee leaned in, albeit her short stature meant there wasn’t a great distance for her to go, and inspected the bead with narrowed eyes for a few seconds, then straightened in seeming satisfaction. 

“ _Mx. LeBlanc_ ought to be pleased, yes. Satisfactory job, I suppose.”

“Wow,” Crowley drawled, deadpan. “ Flattering words, coming from you. It’s not as if I just made the company hundreds of thousands of quid or anything.”

“Shut it,” Bee replied, crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s your _job_ , just like fencing the thing is mine.”

Crowley held his hands up in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, _my Lord_.” She shot him another annoyed glare.

“I hate you,” she said, though there was no true malice in the statement. She closed the lid of the box and slotted it into the dumbwaiter that sat behind her desk, entering a command on the accompanying keypad to have it sent down to the Transport Department and sliding the door closed. “Now let’s get going, assignment briefing’s in ten.”

Crowley followed Bee back to the lift and waited as she scanned her own iris and pressed the button for 62F, one of the conference room levels. Crowley pulled his gloves off, stashing them in his coat pocket.

“Did you run into any trouble?” Bee suddenly asked, her voice quiet in the insulated space of the lift.

“Hm?” 

“In Berlin, Tony. Any danger?” she clarified, speaking a little louder but not looking at him. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. Bee was the only person alive who could call him Tony without getting a murderous glare or a punch in the face in return, but she only did it when they were alone and it usually preceded her style of vaguely insulting banter. Her voice right now was even, measured. It sounded sincere, and...odd. 

“...No,” Crowley replied, finally. “It all went as smooth as silk, if I do say so myself.” He smirked confidently in an attempt to alleviate whatever weird tension was hanging between them. 

Bee didn’t take the bait. She merely nodded, still not looking at him, and shuffled the stack of folders under her arm. She seemed...distracted. Crowley frowned. 

They exited to a more populated floor consisting of an open central conference area and several more private, sound-proofed meeting rooms surrounded by opaque frosted glass. A large TV display was mounted on the far wall, depicting a world map with several pins in it. Bee walked briskly past Crowley in the direction of one of the private meeting rooms, presumably to meet with the great Lucille herself and prepare before the actual briefing took place. 

Crowley followed her out and sidled up to the break counter of the open conference area, pouring himself a paper to-go cup of coffee and wrinkling his nose at the spread of assorted unappealing pastries that had been laid out. He did grab a small sprig of red grapes from the fruit platter next to it, popping a few into his mouth. 

“Crowley,” a voice tinged with disdain said from behind him. He turned around.

“Dagon,” he parroted back to her mid-chew, mouth still full of grape.

Dagon was Lucille’s second daughter, eight years younger than Bee, and in Crowley’s unfiltered opinion, quite a few rungs lower on the food chain. Her surname was Prince, obviously, but Crowley actually had no idea what Dagon’s real first name was; Dagon had always been her nickname, even as a young girl. She was vocally adamant that everyone called her that, and no one really bothered to make the effort to do otherwise. 

She was a field operative (read: thief) like Crowley, but Crowley found her slightly...graceless. She was tall, with a stocky, muscular build and a strong face, crisp blue eyes, and slicked back, dirty blonde hair. She preferred to sport a variety of dark, gothic-style clothing with high collars and ornamentations like feathers and various belted straps. Crowley didn’t have a problem with any of this, really-- Dagon was, at the end of the day, proficient at her work even though she lacked Crowley’s stylish flair-- but Dagon had made it clear from the very beginning that _she_ had a problem with _him_. 

It wasn’t the same flavour of disdain that Bee showed him; Bee might be rude and brash towards him, but Crowley knew that at the end of the day, he and Bee understood and trusted each other, and the rest of it all could just be chalked up to the friction between their individually prickly personalities. 

Dagon on the other hand seemed resolutely adamant in her goal to trip Crowley up, or to prove to Lucille that she was better than him, a goal which seemed to colour many of her decisions on the job. It was a trait that almost inherently ensured that she would never _be_ better than him, either, because while she was busy sniping at him, he was making sure all of his own work was top-notch. The rest of the company could see all this clear as day, but no one dared say anything due to her standing as a bonafide Prince, and so she persisted, an annoying thorn in Crowley’s side. 

“Didn’t fuck up in Berlin, then?” she asked, her tone as falsely sweet as she could manage as she poured her own to-go cup of coffee.

“‘Fraid not, fish queen,” he said with a coy smile, swallowing down his mouthful of grapes and popping another into his mouth. “You in Austin?”

“Of course not,” she said bitterly, as she reached for the little plastic buckets of milk and cream, dumping several of each into her cup and mixing it all with a wooden stirrer before pressing a plastic cap on top. 

They walked together, not really by choice but more because they were inevitably moving towards the same thing, to stand in front of the large TV at the front of the room, alongside a few other people in the room. 

Crowley sipped at his coffee, free hand shoved into the (extremely small) pocket of his trousers. 

There were pins in both Berlin and Austin, Texas that were coloured blue, marking successful acquisitions that had been appropriately handed in but not yet in the client’s hands. Each pin was marked with the corresponding agent’s crest, so in Crowley’s case, a winding serpent, and Dagon’s, what looked like a Kraken. A few green pins dotted the map-- Moscow, Cairo, Mykonos-- indicating pieces that since the last assignment briefing, had already gone through the full cycle and had safely been delivered to their respective clients. One pin, in Bangkok, was auspiciously red, and was marked with the crest of a rather round, gargoyle-looking creature. 

“Shit,” Crowley said, lips poised over the rim of his cup.

“No kidding,” Dagon muttered under her breath. “Usher’s _fucked_.”

At that moment, the TV pinged softly and a series of new pins dropped onto the map, coloured white and lacking any crests, indicating locations of all the new jobs for the next month that were about to be assigned by Bee in the briefing. They were scattered all about the world-- Paris, Shanghai, Rio de Janeiro--

“ _Prague_ ,” Dagon exclaimed wistfully, looking up at the TV with wide eyes. “I’ve always wanted to see the St. Vitus Cathedral.”

The door of the closest private meeting room opened then, and Bee stepped out, followed by the one and only Lucille Prince. She was in her mid-seventies now, but still stood nearly as tall as Crowley’s six-foot-one, and maintained a slender, graceful frame. Lucille had long, salt-and-pepper hair that was done up in an intricate, elegant bun, and a pale, elven face with brilliantly green eyes and extremely subtle makeup; she was wearing an immaculately tailored white blazer with a deep V neckline and no shirt underneath, tapered white trousers and tall black Louboutin stilettos that pushed her past Crowley’s own height. The elegant, controlled rhythm of her walk made it easy to see why her presence seemed to command any room she was in, even at her age. But, as was usual with these debriefing meetings, she simply sat down primly in the leather armchair next to the podium, crossing one leg over another and folding her hands as Bee walked past her to the microphone. 

“Alright, this meeting is called to order,” Bee announced sharply. The various groups of people in the room dispersed, settling into the few rows of chairs that had been arranged in front of the podium. Crowley found a seat to the right of the back row, deliberately avoiding sitting near anyone else so he could drape a lanky leg over the chair in front of him and throw an equally lanky arm across the back of the one next to him. Dagon scowled at him from the other side of the room.

“For the records: the date is Thursday, October 17th, 2019. This is our mid-October debriefing and subsequent November assignment briefing for F Levels’ Ninth Circle field operatives.” 

The security clearance levels at Prince were, apropos of the Lucifer sculpture emblazoned on their side of the building, organised by Circles, in reference to the circles of Hell described in Dante’s Inferno. Hence, the demonic-themed monikers-- the higher one’s circle, the higher-risk and higher-value artworks one dealt with, and so the more prominent the demonic moniker. It was rather a bit similar to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, where each moniker was a title rather than an individual-- the Prince of Hell Beelzebub, for example, would always refer to the person who was Lucille’s second-in-command, whether the role was filled by Beatrice Prince or not. 

Crowley enjoyed the title of ‘Serpent of Eden’, which was not only one of great prestige amongst the company, but simply a name he thought fit his aesthetic rather well. 

Bee gestured to the TV, a small clicker in hand. The map shifted, to show only the blue and green pins.

“The Moscow, Mykonos, and Cairo assignments, led by Belphegor, Leviathan, and Mammon, respectively, have been completed to full client satisfaction.”

A small round of applause rippled through the room. 

“The Austin and Berlin assignments, led by Dagon and the Serpent of Eden, have successfully been acquired and are awaiting shipment to their respective clients by the Transport division. Further details will be provided to Transport leads upon this meeting’s conclusion; no further action required for field operatives at this time.”

A smaller round of applause at that. 

Bee clicked the device in her hand again, and this time the map zoomed in on Thailand, showing the singular red pin on Bangkok. The room fell eerily silent. 

“Unfortunately, this month we had a lapse,” she continued, her voice dangerously business-as-usual considering what everyone knew was about to happen. “Operative Usher has failed to deliver us the requested piece from Bangkok within the proposed timeline, which has disappointed the client greatly.” 

“Let it be known that Prince will not tolerate mistakes like these, as they inevitably tarnish our reputation in the eyes of future clients. Rest assured, Usher has been...dealt with. From this point forward, he is no longer of concern to the company or any of its employees.” 

A murmur ran through the audience. _Well, at least they’re keen_ , Crowley thought with a frown. Leave it Bee and Lucille to not beat around the bush. He didn’t like to think too hard about what could happen if he fucked up, because he and everyone else had a pretty strong suspicion that one didn’t simply get fired from this side of the Prince empire. Certainly not someone from the Ninth Circle, who would have been privy to all sorts of private company goings-on. It was a good thing Crowley was, well, good at his job, and generally uninterested in sticking his nose into other company business.

Bee cleared her throat and flipped to her next notecard. “Now that that’s taken care of-- Belphegor, please stand.”

Belphegor stood. She was a slim Malaysian woman, with a dark buzzcut and a penchant for high-femme clothing similar to Crowley’s own tastes. She rarely spoke, and looked like she could kill you in an instant. Crowley liked her.

Bee held out a briefing file. “You’ve been assigned to clean up Usher’s mess. There’s no more room for error for this client, but I needn’t tell you that. You leave for Bangkok next week.”

Belphegor glided to the front of the room to take the file, and practically vanished into thin air afterwards, as was her way in every assignment briefing. She didn’t give a damn about any of the petty squabbles or drama over assignments; Everyone knew this, and so Belphegor always got her assignments first. 

“Alright,” Bee started up again, “November assignments.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Dagon lean forward ever-so-slightly.

“Paris,” Bee continued, holding up another briefing file. “Sotheby’s Auction House.” 

Crowley sucked in a breath. Sotheby’s was very high profile indeed. That was bound to be a wildly difficult job. 

“Asmodeus.”

Asmodeus stood to receive his file. He was a towering dark-skinned man, with mesmerizing golden eyes and an utterly insouciant charm. Probably the most affable of his cohorts in the Ninth Circle. On his way back to his seat, Crowley flashed him a crossed-fingers gesture and a wry smile. Asmodeus’s eyes twinkled in amusement as he made a sign of the cross over his chest, using his body to conveniently block the motion from Bee’s line of sight.

Crowley leaned his chair back on its hind legs then and spaced out a little behind the safety of his sunglasses as Bee went on with the assignments, not being terribly partial to any of the locations that he’d seen on the map. In any case, he’d been to most of the places before. Idly, he wondered how many of them Aziraphale had been to, and if there were any he hadn’t, what his reaction would be upon seeing them for the first time…awe? Wonder? Actual stars in his eyes?

“ _Crowley!_ ” Bee practically shouted, snapping him out of his musings.

“Sorry, what?” Crowley said, chair landing back on all four legs with a thump. He saw Asmodeus stifling a good-natured snicker a few rows in front of him, and he could’ve sworn the corner of Lucille’s mouth curled up ever so slightly at the diversion.

“I _said_ ,” Bee grumbled, “The Sternberg Palace, Prague, goes to the Serpent of Eden.”

Crowley registered this and immediately looked at Dagon on the other side of the room, who looked like she was seriously entertaining the notion of violently murdering him. Crowley merely stood, swaggered his way up to Bee’s podium and took his file, smirking at her the whole way back. 

“And lastly, the NOMA, in New Orleans-- goes to Dagon.”

 _Huh_. Crowley had never been to New Orleans before, and as a fan of both spicy food and alcohol at inappropriate times of day, he thought that the prospect of a job there actually sounded rather nice. But it was clear that Dagon didn’t feel the same way, glowering as she stalked up to the podium and snatched her file from Bee. 

“Alright. That concludes our November assignment briefing. We’ll take a brief break now, but non-field operatives, please stay so we can discuss the relevant next steps about the past month’s jobs. Field operatives are free to go.” 

People stood up and started milling about as more employees from other divisions trickled in for the next phase of the meeting. Crowley rose, stretching into a full-body yawn, before tossing his empty coffee cup in the bin, picking up his file folder, and heading back towards the lift. He was only mildly aware of the sound of angry footsteps behind him before Dagon had whirled him around by the elbow and resolutely squeezed herself into his personal space. 

“You’re such an arsehole, you know that?” she snapped.

Crowley scoffed. “You know I’ve got nothing to do with who gets what assignments, right?”

“You didn’t have to _gloat_ about it, though.” 

“Didn’t I?” Crowley said lazily, turning and pressing the down button for the lift. “Sorry Dagon, you just make it too easy.” He was not sorry at all. 

Dagon made a noise of utter frustration, but evidently decided that there were too many people around to make a scene about it. She turned abruptly and started stomping away towards the stairwell. Crowley shrugged, idly checking his phone for a minute or so before the lift arrived with a ding. 

He was just stepping into it when he turned and locked eyes with Hastur, who had just rounded the corner into the conference area holding a dossier on someone who no doubt needed a good threatening and/or thrashing in his grimy, unkempt hand. 

Hastur took one look at Crowley’s ostentatious leather trousers, and pinched his face into a truly impressive scowl. 

Crowley expertly used this moment to push the ‘close door’ button, sticking his tongue out at the other man and giving a positively obnoxious little wave as the lift door closed in Hastur’s face. 

He then proceeded to cackle to himself the whole way back down to the parking garage. 

_Worth it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what Crowley is doing with the Them? :)))
> 
> Welcome to Hell! I initially wrote the character of Asmodeus into this chapter just as a cameo nod to the name-change dialogue in the Golgotha scene, but out of the recurring OCs in this story, he might actually be my favorite. 
> 
> I re-evaluated my outline for the 2nd half of the story, and the estimated chapter count is now 40, welp. 
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hasn't been able to stop thinking about Crowley since their meeting. But alas, there are also other problems he needs to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the amazing [Eileen](https://twitter.com/whereiseileen), who's been beta'ing for me and especially great at correcting my British slang and spelling <3

The day had _really_ started off quite promising. It was a lovely overcast morning, a generous coating of dew from the past weekend’s light bouts of drizzle giving renewed life to the trees and shrubs dotting Soho’s sidewalks, and the soft scent of petrichor rising into the air along with a muted sun. Some deigned to see London’s penchant for long, wet autumns and winters as dreary, but Aziraphale enjoyed it just as much as the clear skies of spring and summer-- there was a quiet beauty to the pitter-patter of rain on a window pane, to the whisper and crackle of leaves falling from branches, to the stark mystique of a city transformed by thick blankets of mist and snow. Perfect times to cozy up next to the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa and a good book, not that Aziraphale ever needed an excuse for that. 

Aziraphale had woken around seven o’clock feeling rather tip-top, relishing in the slow, practised rhythm of his morning routine as he set about making his bed, neatly folding his pajamas on top, and gathering his robe and underclothes for a long, refreshing shower. 

The tub in his small bathroom was an ostentatious thing, a French Bateau clawfoot complete with hand-applied copper leafing on the ornate Medici-style feet. The small flat Aziraphale occupied above his shop contained many pieces of antique furniture, of course, but the tub was probably the one thing he would consider to be on the verge of silly. For one, he restored most of his furniture himself for the obvious sake of convenience and also because he loved the work; the clawfoot tub, however, was not _actually_ an antique piece-- he had bought it new, knowing that the makers had spent weeks upon weeks applying various primers and solutions and coatings to get it to that vintage, aged look. He might’ve been slightly embarrassed about this, if not for the fact that placing a hulking, solid cast iron tub, the weight of which would be nearly half a tonne when filled, in his pre-1900s, rickety second-story flat presented him with a great deal of worry. 

This tub was acrylic, and much lighter. It required a fussy freestanding tub filler, only the gentlest of cleaning treatments, and the handheld shower head had terrible water pressure. Aziraphale loved it with all his heart. He tended to reserve mornings for showers, but since the weather was starting to cool, the thought of lovely, long scented baths in the evenings with a glass of wine was starting to inch ever closer on the horizon. 

Aziraphale hummed cheerfully to himself as he finished his shower, brushed his teeth, and got dressed for the day in a simple ensemble of a white work shirt, a set of decidedly paint-splattered camel coveralls, and a pair of old racing green wellies. There was a splendid little white vanity set downstairs in the workshop that needed a good pressure wash and a fresh coat of paint and lacquer later in the afternoon, so he didn’t see a point in getting all scrubbed up in his nicer clothes. 

Breakfast was a light affair of a poached egg and jam on toast alongside a cup of his favorite English Breakfast tea, with his customary splash of milk and a half teaspoon of sugar. But not in his usual white angel-winged mug.

Aziraphale hadn’t used his white winged mug in weeks. Because it reminded him of the accompanying black winged mug. Which reminded him of Crowley. 

Aziraphale had no idea how to feel about Crowley. 

The sleek black business card Crowley had given him had started out sitting on his bookbinding desk, then moved to his woodworking bench as he’d been finishing up Deirdre’s cuckoo clock (so he could keep an eye on it, was what he told himself), then found itself on the coffee table in his sitting room (so he wouldn’t lose it in his messy workshop). It was now perching happily on his nightstand, flashing its foiled silver contact details with every shift of the light. 

The lack of name or company on the card seemed counterintuitive to Aziraphale, though he supposed it rather added to the man’s overall air of mystery. He had flipped the card over at some point, only to be greeted by a glossy spot UV design of a winding serpent, which wasn’t exactly the same, but certainly gave off a similar impression, to the small serpent tattoo emblazoned on Crowley’s temple.

Crowley had no reason to contact Aziraphale again. And like he’d insisted that Friday, Aziraphale did not invoice Crowley for his services with the rosary bead. He had no intention of changing his mind on this, and therefore he had no reason to contact Crowley either, or to hold onto his information. 

_And yet._

Aziraphale huffed a sigh into his tea. In retrospect, purposefully not using his winged mug was a useless gesture as far as ‘getting his mind off of Crowley’ went. 

_Crowley had called him ‘angel’._

It was just a casual reference to his name’s biblical origins. A slip of the tongue. A parting tease for someone he would never see again. It couldn’t have been anything else. He and Crowley couldn’t possibly _get on_ , they were cut from completely different cloth, they were different in almost every way-- 

But were they? 

They both worked in the arena of high-value art and antiques (well, maybe _technically_ Aziraphale didn’t anymore, but he certainly still had the social and practical know-how to keep up if it came up). They were both smart and clearly well-read, and seemed to share pointed opinions on children and a penchant for sartorial pleasures, even if their respective tastes differed wildly. Aziraphale had _personal preferences_ , he wasn’t _blind_ \-- he could definitely appreciate a well-tailored leather jacket, just not on himself.

He had initially been intimidated by Crowley; the man exuded defiance and attitude, the kind of figure a parent would warn their teenager about during school, what with his tight clothing and pierced earlobes and roaring motorbike. But as soon as they’d started talking, the banter was... _easy_. Flowing. Crowley’s open mischievous streak had perfectly coaxed out Aziraphale’s own dry wit; Aziraphale in turn had been impressed with Crowley’s granular knowledge of historical art and scripture. Those weren’t things that people generally remembered to rattle off as party tricks. Aziraphale had found himself more and more intrigued by the man as the night went on. 

He wondered if it would be inappropriate to call Crowley just to...talk. At a café, over a cup of tea or something. Would that be unprofessional? Had their meeting, short as it was, so unorthodox, and with no exchange of invoices or payment, even counted as a client-contractor relationship? 

Most importantly: would Crowley even _want_ to be his friend? Or was he already gone, like a spectre in the wind? He probably had more pieces to acquire, Aziraphale thought to himself. Bigger fish to catch. He probably traveled all over the world, finding priceless works of art for rich, important clients and socializing with the art world’s elite. He wouldn’t have time to waste on a portly old retired conservator who spent his days refurbishing local junk…

_Yes, best not bother the man_ , he thought, as he made his way down the little spiral staircase connecting his flat to the shop.

\------------------------------

“Oh, Aziraphale, it’s _spectacular_ ,” Deirdre exclaimed, eyes sparkling in admiration as she gave the Black Forest cuckoo clock yet another once-over.

“Isn’t it _just_?” Aziraphale said, beaming. The clock was at its full glory once again, every dusty piece sanded and painted in bright, glossy colour, every broken joint freshly replaced and gleaming, the newly-carved wooden clock hands ticking in perfect beat. The music box tinkled merrily as the dancing figures moved about their stations as if nothing had ever been wrong. “You _must_ give me the name of the vendor who carried this. I couldn’t bear to miss them the next time I pop over to Kensington.”

“I’ll write it down for you!” Deirdre replied excitedly, fishing her chequebook, a notepad, and a pen from her bag. 

“How is Adam doing abroad these days?” Aziraphale asked, as he carefully began wrapping the clock into several layers of protective paper. 

“Oh, they grow up so fast, don’t they,” Deirdre said fondly, sliding her written cheque and note across the counter towards him and tucking the pen back into her bag. “He’s at that young adult age where he’s busy all the time trying to get ahead in his career, you know?”

Adam Young was Deirdre’s son, whom Aziraphale had known ever since she became his regular. Young Adam had been around twelve when Aziraphale first moved to Soho, and frequently appeared at Aziraphale’s doorstep all through his secondary school years, with and without his mother alike. Aziraphale always thought him an inquisitive, charismatic boy, always eager for knowledge and yearning for adventure. In the later years, he often brought along his group of friends from school, three other children named Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale, who collectively called themselves The Them and had installed Adam as their sort of de facto leader. Aziraphale adored all of them, spending many a slow afternoon in the shop spoiling them with biscuits and tales of fantastical adventures and buried treasure. 

Their time had been relatively short, though; when Adam turned sixteen, he had gotten a scholarship to a prestigious university in America, and set off across the pond soon after. From what little Deirdre had been able to relay to him over the years, the courses were rigorous and Adam became extremely busy; after graduating with his bachelor’s degree, he’d apparently landed an internship at a prominent finance company in New York City and had spent the years following steadily building the foundations of his career. Aziraphale hadn’t seen Adam in earnest since he’d left for uni a full decade ago. 

“Oh, to be young and full of ambition,” Aziraphale tutted, finally satisfied with the paper-ensconced clock, sealing the bundle with a few strips of packing tape. “I hope he at least has the opportunity to come home for the holidays this year. You and Arthur must miss him terribly.”

“So much,” she responded fondly, holding out a cardboard box for him to tuck the wrapped clock into. “For all I complained about how wild he was as a boy, the house is ever so quiet now. At least we still have Dog-- though he’s getting on in years now, the poor thing. The few times Adam’s been back, I could swear he only came back to see Dog,” she said, laughing.

Dog was Adam’s beloved Jack Russell Terrier, whom he had gotten at a very young age, hence the unfortunate name. The small thing used to follow Adam everywhere, which Aziraphale had found incredibly endearing. 

“I fear I would’ve done the same when I was a boy,” Aziraphale chuckled, taping the box closed. “If we’d been allowed pets in our household, that is.” 

Aziraphale’s old Bakelite phone rang out then, superseding the low din of Soho’s bustling streets outside the shop window. 

“Oh-- I’d best get that,” Aziraphale said.

“Of course, I’ll get out of your hair,” Deirdre replied, leaning in for a quick one-armed hug, the other arm carefully maneuvering the box. “Thank you _so_ much again, Aziraphale. I've got the most gorgeous cuckoo this side of the Thames, I’m sure of it. ”

Aziraphale gave her a wave as she made her way out the front door, then turned to pick up the phone with as pleasant a voice as he could muster.

“Good morning, _A.Z. Fell & Co. Antiques, Restorations, & Repairs_. How may I help you?” 

_"Aziraphale. It’s Gabriel."_

_Oh, tosh._ Aziraphale grimaced. 

“Gabriel,” he managed, trying to sound as even-toned as possible. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

_“What, a man can’t simply call to wish his brother well?”_ Aziraphale could practically hear the charismatic smile that was bound to be plastered on Gabriel’s face, all straight white teeth.

“Is that really why you’re calling?” Aziraphale knew it wasn’t, but he could hope.

_“...No,”_ Gabriel said after a pause, dashing any of Aziraphale’s measly longings. _“...Listen, I need a favor.”_

“I told you after last time, I don’t want to do any more consultations. I’m busy enough as it is with the shop.”

_“Right, grandad's old shop...how’s that going? I’d have thought the number of people in the business of paying to get their dusty old furniture restored would be dwindling these days.”_

“The shop is going perfectly fine, thank you very much,” Aziraphale replied snippily. “I’m _happy_ running it. Now what did you need?”

_“Uriel, you know, the new Head Conservator Uriel? They’re stuck in Xi’an until tomorrow.”_

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow, waiting for further elaboration.

_“The Royal Museum is in line to host the next stop in a touring exhibition of the Terracotta Army. We were given a short turnaround to receive the artifacts from the last exhibition in Milan, plus a few extra pieces from the UNESCO site in Xi’an. The problem is that Shaanxi was hit with some major thunderstorms last night, and Uriel’s flight back got delayed.”_

“Are they alright?” Aziraphale said, brow furrowing with worry.

_“Yes, yes, they’re fine,”_ Gabriel said, tone dismissive. _“They’ll be back in a few days, but the shipments arrived this morning and they’re not here to do the initial inspections and start directing the conservation team on properly prepping and maintaining the statues for the exhibit. That’s where you come in.”_

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “You can’t be serious. I haven’t directed a conservation effort for artifacts of that calibre since I was at the British Museum. How could I possibly waltz in and do that now? For the _Terracotta statues_ , no less?” 

Gabriel sighed on the other end of the phone.

_“Believe me, I know it’s not ideal. But our staff is light right now and every head conservator in London seems to be booked solid this month, so I didn’t know who else to call. And the clock’s ticking on this, Aziraphale. Our Chinese liaison isn’t available in the country for much longer, and we can’t afford to lose even a day’s worth of work on the timeline we have.”_

_Well, at least he’s keen_ , Aziraphale thought to himself. The Terracotta statues were some of the world’s oldest and grandest cultural artifacts, and deserved to be handled with the best possible care. 

_“Besides,”_ Gabriel continued, _“The Terracotta statue exhibition brings the most successful fiscal year ever for practically every museum that hosts it. We can’t mess up this opportunity to impress our benefactors.”_

Aziraphale frowned. Leave it to Gabriel to use ancient artifacts from the 3rd century BCE as mere pawns to appease their donors.

_“Plus, you worked on the Terracotta soldiers before, right?”_

“I--” Aziraphale started, “It was _very_ briefly, just a short week-long seminar _decades_ ago where I mostly shadowed the archaeologists at the Qin Mausoleum, I don’t think that exactly qualifies as _working on them--_ ”

_“But you saw them work! You saw the process! That’s better than anyone else around here, in any case,”_ Gabriel said, with all the vocal force of a steamroller. 

“I….suppose,” Aziraphale said, composure wilting as he saw his inevitable loss. “I still don’t know if I’m the right person for this job, Gabriel--”

_“Aziraphale,”_ Gabriel interrupted. Aziraphale flinched, purely out of habit.

Gabriel’s tone went deadly serious. _“Would I have asked, if there were anyone else?”_

Silence.

“...I suppose not,” Aziraphale sighed, conceding his defeat.

There was another beat of silence. And then--

_“Great!”_ Gabriel actually _clapped_ on the other end of the phone, voice full of vim and vigor once again. _“You can have some time to get your ducks in a row at the shop, so see you after lunch? Maybe around 1? I’ll have your pass ready with...what’s-her-name, Tara, Tammy? At the front desk. And we’ll get the ball rolling! Sound good?”_

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, barely in time before he heard the click of Gabriel hanging up on the other end. 

Aziraphale placed the receiver back on its perch, then proceeded to slump into the nearest dusty old armchair and let out a slow, shuddering breath.

He supposed he would be getting dressed in proper clothes today after all.

\------------------------------

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale looked up from his seat outside the quaint outdoor café in central London, eyes lighting up at the sound of his name spoken in a forthright but warm American accent.

“Anathema dear!” He folded up the newspaper he’d been reading and tucked it away, standing to receive a warm hug from his friend. “It’s ever so good to see you,” he said, laughing lightly. “It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale was proud to call Anathema Device one of his closest friends; they’d met when she started a curatorial internship at The Royal Museum back when Aziraphale had been doing consultation work for Gabriel at a much more frequent interval, during the time his shop was still struggling to find its feet. He was often on-site at the museum then, and met her by chance at the little coffee cart in the museum’s café, where they’d struck up a conversation about the then-upcoming exhibition on 17th-century New England Puritan artifacts. They met at the café several times thereafter, speaking about anything and everything-- from the ins and outs of colonialism in the museum industry, to their shared love of fashion, to Aziraphale’s passion for Old English literature and Anathema’s love for divination and the occult. 

That had been around a decade ago, and they’d been close friends ever since. Anathema had proven herself a formidable curator, because of course she had, and now enjoyed a position as assistant curator working directly under Aziraphale’s sister, Michael. She was outspoken, fiery, and sharp as a tack, and Aziraphale loved her dearly. It helped that they were both impassioned and rather eccentric, gravitating towards each other on all the subjects that usually tended to make other people’s eyes glaze over in confusion or disinterest. He didn’t think there was anyone on Earth who knew him better, to be honest, despite her being almost twenty years his junior. 

Anathema broke the hug and stepped back, giving him an appraising once-over. “I’ll say! Look at you, you look great! 

Aziraphale blushed at the compliment in earnest. Having been forced out of the house by Gabriel’s jarring call, he’d taken the liberty of choosing a nice outfit to make himself feel better-- he now sported a crisp white mandarin-collar dress shirt paired with a pale blue ribbon tie, light grey trousers and waistcoat, a pair of sand-coloured brogues, and his favorite cream trench coat. 

“Speak for yourself, dear,” he said with a fond huff, sitting back down in his chair. “You look wonderful as always.”

Anathema gave a little twirl, swishing her long, beautiful dark hair and showing off the belted turquoise-and-navy plaid coat she had on atop a floor-length ruffled black skirt, complete with a matching high-necked lace bodice. It was all pulled together with her trademark heeled lace-up boots and tortoiseshell-framed glasses. Aziraphale had always been a fan of her style-- it was a bit old-fashioned, much like his own, but alternative in a witchy sort of way and thoroughly unique, somehow making her look at once owlish and fierce, which was about as good a description as any for Anathema Device. 

“It’s a special occasion,” she said, eyes twinkling. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale responded, curious.

Anathema held up her left hand. On her ring finger was an antiqued silver ring in the shape of twisting tree branches, at the center of which sat a small, whisper-pale green stone. 

Aziraphale stood up again with much excitement, his chair clattering with the sudden movement. 

“When did _that_ happen?!”

“A few days ago,” Anathema said, fondly admiring the engagement ring as she sat down across from him. 

“And you didn’t call to tell me?!” Aziraphale cried, almost offended at the notion. 

“I was going to! But Agnes,” she said conspiratorially, opening her canvas field bag and pulling out a battered, leather-bound book and flipping it open to a bookmarked page. “She said here: ‘Prophecy 3847: At which hour joyous news doth arrive, waiteth a few moons f’r a sudden angel’s encount’r.’”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in consideration of this, sitting back down again. 

Very early on, Aziraphale had learned that Anathema’s penchant for divination wasn’t just a hobby; apparently she was descended from a long line of real witches, the most notable of which was her great-great-great-great-great (five greats? That was right, right?) grandmother, a woman by the name of Agnes Nutter who had been burned at the stake after having written a book of entirely accurate prophecies in the 17th century. 

Aziraphale, in his very specific grew-up-Catholic-but-left-it-behind way, didn’t have much of an opinion on supernatural forces or magicks anymore outside of academic curiosity, and so had been wary of Agnes when Anathema had first told him about her. She carried the book of prophecies everywhere, and Aziraphale had initially been worried about his young friend, but as time wore on, his opinion...shifted. 

Anathema told him about Prophecy 2214, in which Agnes wrote that ‘in December 1980, an Apple will arise no man can eat’, and advised the reader to invest their money in said Apple, which Anathema’s mother had done in California, to great financial success. And years later, she told him about Prophecy 3819 which proclaimed ‘when Robin’s Chariot inverted be, four wheels in the skye, a man with bruises be upon youre bedde, aching his hedd for willow fine”. That was how Aziraphale discovered that his friend Newt had just _happened_ to get into a horrific automobile accident right outside Anathema’s front door (in his Reliant Robin, a frankly ghastly vehicle that even Aziraphale thought would be better off in a scrap heap than on a road where there might be _pedestrians_ ), and the two had inexplicably hit it off on the subsequent trip to hospital. 

Aziraphale still didn’t have a solid opinion on otherworldly forces, really. But after all this time, he had come to some level of acceptance that dear old Agnes was, in general, on the money. He didn’t much care to dive much deeper into what that _meant_. That was an existential crisis for another day.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Anathema said, reaching over to touch his arm. “Besides,” she said, checking her wristwatch, “Newt should be due any minute now.”

As if summoned by Anathema’s proclamation, Newt chose that very moment to round the street corner, trotting up to their table with a timid wave.

“Newt!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

Newt smiled shyly, ruffling his wild, errant hair with one hand and pulling a third chair up to their table with the other. “Hi, Mr. Fell.”

“Did you remember to lock your bike, Newt?” Anathema said absentmindedly, half-distracted by her perusal of the menu. 

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me this morning,” Newt said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before shuffling into his seat and picking up his own menu. 

Aziraphale shook his head fondly at this domestic display. He’d at first been skeptical of his two friends’ compatibility as a couple, what with Anathema being so headstrong and Newt so awkward and shy, but it worked. Anathema’s adventurous personality drew Newt out of his shell, giving him a courage and determination previously unseen, and Newt’s gentleness softened Anathema’s more abrasive edges and revealed a tenderness underneath that nicely evened out the dynamic between the two.

The waiter arrived with three glasses of water and pulled out a notebook to take their orders. Aziraphale opted for a platter of strawberry-filled crêpes with fresh cream, Newt a turkey, swiss, and avocado melt, and Anathema the butternut squash soup with tangy sage coulis and a scrummy-sounding side of herbed flatbread. 

Once the waiter had scribbled down their selections and bustled away, Aziraphale leaned forward, threading his fingers together and looking at his two young friends with a childlike eagerness. 

“Now that that’s taken care of...you simply _must_ tell me _everything._ ”

Newt laughed and launched into the story of his elaborate proposal, which involved not one but two accidentally dropped ice-cream cones, a botched but well-intentioned courting ritual he had dug up from one of Anathema’s old spellbooks, and an unfortunate attack involving a very angry swan that had very nearly swallowed Anathema’s engagement ring.. Throughout the whole story, Anathema never stopped staring at him fondly, love clear in her eyes. Aziraphale beamed.

\------------------------------

Aziraphale and Anathema said goodbye to Newt at the end of their meal, making sure to see that he got going on his bicycle unscathed and in the right direction, before turning to make the short walk back to The Royal Museum together. Gabriel’s requested meeting time had lined up perfectly with Anathema’s lunch break, and Aziraphale had praised the heavens that she’d been free to meet him for lunch and calm his nerves before he had to see his brother.

They chatted idly on the way back. Anathema complained about the new head guide the museum had hired, a woman named Mary Loquacious, who certainly had a passion for spitting out information about the artworks, but so frequently went off on tangents that other staff, and sometimes even the visitors, had to employ rather forceful methods to reel her back in. Her voice apparently carried so far that Anathema could hear her tours word-for-word from two rooms over, and it was driving her mad. Aziraphale just laughed, content to be a sounding board for her, knowing that this was her chance to vent because she was too nice to actually confront Mary about the whole thing.

It was only a few minutes before they were ascending the museum’s front steps and entering the lobby, the security guard nodding at Anathema’s employee badge and doing a quick bag check for Aziraphale. It was midday on a Tuesday at the start of the colder season, so the crowds were relatively sparse. 

They stepped up to the ticket counter to great fanfare from the colourful, red-haired elderly woman sitting behind the desk.

“Oh, Mr. Fell!” she exclaimed cheerily. “How are you, darling?”

“Hello, dear Madame Tracy,” Aziraphale said, smile wide and warm as she stood up for a hug in greeting, giving a quick welcome-back wave over his shoulder at Anathema, who returned the gesture.

Marjorie Potts, or Madame Tracy as she preferred to be called, was the head Admissions Clerk at the museum, and had worked there for as long as anyone could remember, even when Aziraphale’s father had been museum director back in the day. Aziraphale had known of her for a long time, but it wasn’t until he discovered one day through casual conversation that she happened to live just down the street from his shop in Soho, that the two of them had struck up a friendship as well. Tracy ran a part-time business as a spiritual medium from her home (and although she never said so outright, Aziraphale highly suspected that she also provided...ahem... _other_ nighttime services there), and frequently made use of Aziraphale’s services to find or repair various pieces of furniture or knick-knacks to dress up her flat, which was equally as colourful as her person. 

Today she was sporting her usual bright turquoise eyeshadow and thick false eyelashes, her torso draped with a bright, multi-coloured wool shawl over a hot pink dress, fingers, neck and ears equally adorned with chunky, marbled stone jewelry. 

“I wish we could catch up,” she pouted, “but I’m on the clock and as you know, Director St. Claire will be expecting you.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes.”

Madame Tracy retrieved a badge marked “VIP”, reaching up to clip it to his shirt pocket. Aziraphale looked at the years-old photo of him printed on the front of it and grimaced at the unflattering lighting.

“Oh, I know, darling,” she murmured sympathetically, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. “It’ll be alright, you always make it through. And if that awful brother of yours says anything untoward, just let me know and I’ll give him a good talking-to next time I see him.”

Aziraphale laughed shakily, grateful for the support but blanching inside at what might happen if Tracy really tried to talk back to Gabriel like that. She had a good standing at the museum due to her long tenure, but inciting Gabriel’s wrath never seemed like a good idea for anyone. 

“Thank you, Tracy. If I finish early, I’ll be sure to pop back over before I leave. No promises though,” he said sadly. 

She waved him goodbye, and Aziraphale once again set off alongside Anathema, this time heading towards the administrative wing. 

Right when they were about to reach her desk, they bumped into Michael in the hallway. 

“Anathema,” Michael said in her trademark clear, clipped tone. “I was just about to come find you, we have some new developments in the Sargent exhibition that would be wise for you to see.” Only after she said this did she appear to even recognize that Aziraphale was standing in the hallway with them. “Oh, Aziraphale. Hello.”

“Hello, Michael,” Aziraphale said, a brief moment of silence falling amongst the three of them like a heavy, awkward blanket. “I trust you’re well?”

“Quite well, yes. And your shop?” Michael replied stiffly. Aziraphale’s older sister Michael wasn’t so much unlikeable as she was unsociable in a very specific way, as if the concept of holding conversations with people for purposes other than work genuinely confused her. She was a brilliant Head Curator, with a grand depth of art history knowledge and sharp attention to detail, as well as a knack for designing and managing all manner of fundraisers and museum events, even ones Aziraphale wouldn’t have expected, like the Royal Museum’s educational children’s programs. She was excellent at public relations and generally well-liked among the museum staff as a manager, as long as she didn’t have to have any unprompted social conversations. 

When he was growing up, Michael often served as a sort of neutral, even-tempered ground between soft, passionate Aziraphale, whose head was constantly in the clouds, and hungry, ambitious Gabriel, who chased after their father’s legacy with self-righteous fervor. She was quiet and focused, taking to her studies in a way that their father found acceptably driven, but without the zealous streak that Gabriel and Mason St. Claire possessed. She never scolded Aziraphale for giving up his job or deciding to run the antique shop, but didn’t exactly come to his defense when their father directed his rage at him either, so Aziraphale had never been quite sure where their brother-sister relationship stood, really.

For someone who shared his love (although love seemed a strong word for Michael on any topic) for art and art history, the distinct impression that Aziraphale always got was that he and Michael didn’t have much in common. Like Aziraphale though, she preferred to dress in light-coloured neutrals on the slightly warm end, today wearing a sharp off-white pantsuit and a pearly ruffled-collar satin blouse, her curly brown hair piled high on top of her head and face brushed with professional, very slightly gold-tinted makeup across her eyelids and high cheekbones. She looked at him expectantly, one perfectly penciled eyebrow raised slightly.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale stammered. “The shop is excellent. Probably much too mundane for your tastes I’m afraid, but it’s doing very well.”

Michael’s severe expression changed minutely, as if in relief that he’d acknowledged her distaste for making small talk. “That’s good,” she replied flatly, before turning back to Anathema. “Anathema, we have business to attend to. We should get going.”

“Of course,” Anathema said, inclining her head slightly. She turned to Aziraphale, almost starting in on a hug but drawing back in Michael’s presence. “It was so good to see you, Aziraphale. Stop by before you head out?”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said, giving her a friendly touch to the arm before waving as she and Michael walked off down the hall. 

He re-oriented himself, remembering why he was here before walking in the opposite direction in reluctant search of Gabriel’s office at the far end of the wing. He reached it in short order, a large, imposing glass room with polished marble floors and steel framing beams, glistening white all throughout. Aziraphale had always found the office exceedingly cold and spiritless, the complete antithesis to the cozy, cluttered, and lived-in atmosphere of his shop. 

Gabriel was sitting at his desk reviewing some documents, and upon seeing Aziraphale approach through the fully-glass walls, lit up and enthusiastically waved him in through the open door. 

“Aziraphale! Right on time,” he exclaimed, looking at his watch. “Well, a minute past, but no matter. Come on in, I’m just finishing up reviewing some finance reports and then we can head over to the conservation wing.”

Aziraphale entered, awkwardly sinking himself into one of the frightfully modern leather office chairs in front of Gabriel’s desk and feeling terribly out of place. His person was the only warm-coloured object in the room, everything else on a spectrum of white to gleaming silver and cool greys. Gabriel himself almost blended into the backdrop, wearing an expertly-tailored steel-grey suit in a lightly-shimmering silk blend, his pale lilac tie and matching pocket square pairing perfectly with the strange violet hue of his eyes. Gabriel was a very classically handsome man, tall with broad shoulders and a strong jawline, his dark hair combed neatly back with never a hair out of place. People often found it hard to believe that he and Aziraphale were brothers, especially when they heard Gabriel’s perfect American accent, a result of spending most of his formative years at prestigious American private schools while Michael and Aziraphale were schooled here in the UK. Apparently that was a treatment Mason St. Claire reserved for his eldest, though Aziraphale was secretly glad he’d never been sent off to an unfamiliar country like that as a boy. 

Aziraphale sat there in front of Gabriel’s desk in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes as the other man scribbled signatures onto various documents, much too long to be considered entirely polite on Gabriel’s part, though Aziraphale preferred it to the alternative of trying to hold a conversation. They had tried that, several times now throughout childhood and their time as coworkers of sorts, and both of them seemed to concede that it was...less than pleasant. 

He was just beginning to entertain the thought that perhaps he should have brought a book to busy himself with while waiting, when Gabriel finally clicked his pen shut and stood, shuffling the documents together into a neat pile on his desk. 

“Right!” he said, clapping in that exuberant way that expressed cheeriness but Aziraphale was fairly sure most of the staff disliked. “That’s that taken care of, why don’t we get you down to work? The shipping guys should be here by now, I dispatched them in the morning.”

Aziraphale and Gabriel made their way together towards the conservation wing in thankfully continued silence, neither of them in the mood to make unnecessary small talk. They passed various specialty laboratories, reference libraries, and artwork storage facilities, all filled with employees engrossed in their respective research and daily upkeep, finally reaching a large, main workspace towards the back of the building. It had high, exposed industrial ceilings and was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a spectacular view of the Royal Museum’s exhibition buildings on both sides. Bright bay lights illuminated a wide expanse of polished concrete floor, the open space dotted with sturdy steel work tables, state-of-the art equipment, and relics in various states of disrepair.

The two men crossed the space to approach the loading bay at the back. Several of the staff looked up from their work upon noticing them and extended warm greetings to Aziraphale, which he returned in kind. Gabriel had hired him as a consultant for the museum often in the past, and so Aziraphale had cultivated quite the positive professional relationship with many of the employees, especially the senior conservators. He had to remind himself not to get sucked too deep into the rabbit hole of asking after the health and family of each and every one of them, the distinct feeling of Gabriel’s impatience growing increasingly stronger at each brief stop. 

They finally managed to reach the back, both perking up to attention when they saw the loading bay door already open and revealing a row of specially-designed, temperature-controlled lorries, their containers already open. The couriers were huddled in a loose circle, busy hashing over the contents of a shipping manifest with a straight-backed, elderly Asian man dressed in a quilted navy field jacket, black trousers in a relaxed fit, and sensible dark brown work boots.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Dr. Teng, is that you?”

The elderly man turned at the sound of his name, the crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes crinkling in delight. “Dr. Fell?!” he exclaimed, the slight, sharp hint of a Chinese accent colouring the edge of his otherwise perfect English. 

“It is you!” Aziraphale said, practically jogging up to greet his friend with a warm handshake. “Why, whatever are you doing here? I thought you were still running the annual conservation seminars at the Mausoleum.” 

Dr. Teng Ziqing was (at least, last Aziraphale had spoken to him) Head Archaeologist at Emperor Qin’s Mausoleum Museum in Xi’an, earning the position after decades of excavation and research work on the Terracotta Army. He had directed the week-long preservation seminar that Aziraphale had attended now some twenty-odd years ago (goodness gracious), when he had just been getting into the swing of things in his own career. 

Dr. Teng was a spry, clever slip of a man, standing at least six inches shorter than Aziraphale but with a sharp wit and dignified presence that commanded respect from everyone around him. At the time, Dr. Teng’s fluency in English and Aziraphale’s auspicious, frankly over-the-top excitement at the opportunity to learn more about the Terracotta Army had drawn the two to each other like moths to a flame, and they became fast friends, keeping in touch even after all these years. The man was at least fifteen years his senior, now pushing seventy, yet still retained the defined features and ink-black hair Aziraphale remembered him by, a pair of smart, clear-framed glasses perched low on his nose.

“Technically, I got demoted,” Dr. Teng said, lifting his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “The department heads thought I was getting too old for the excavation game. I suppose it wouldn’t do to drop a newly unearthed piece of statue,” he admitted, wanly. “So they have me running inspections for the traveling exhibition. Though between you and me,” he said, holding a hand up next to his mouth as if protecting a secret from the couriers, who were clearly used to these types of shenanigans and merely carried on with their work, “I fancied the chance to travel the world before the time comes for me to kick it.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the look of shock that crossed his face, which only earned him a chortle from his former mentor. 

“Right!” Gabriel interrupted jovially, as he was wont to do when he was in a hurry, or impatient, or bored. (On second thought, the habit of interrupting jovially may just be a core aspect of Gabriel’s personality.) “You two already know each other, that’s great! That should make the initial inspection of the pieces go much more smoothly, no?”

This was undoubtedly true, and thus they nodded in agreement, though Aziraphale could sense an inkling of irritation from Teng.

“Fantastic. So Aziraphale, Dr. Teng here has to return to China tomorrow, so you two will have to complete all the inspections and paperwork today.” 

Aziraphale shot his friend a horrified look, to which the man responded with a wince and a silent apology. Gabriel barreled on, taking no notice. 

“Is everything accounted for here?” he continued.

“Yes, Mr. St. Claire.” Dr. Teng folded his hands behind his back. “All that’s left is for you to sign off on it, and Dr. Fell and I can be on our way.”

Gabriel made a pleased noise and stepped away towards the couriers to do just that, and Dr. Teng turned back to Aziraphale, placing a conspiratorial hand on his shoulder. 

“I brought something special with me; it was just a taste of home to keep me going, but I’m all the happier knowing that someone here will also be able to appreciate it properly.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale responded, curious as he watched his friend reach into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, pulling out a large, boxy green bag.

“Ta-da!” he said, grinning as he held it out.

_“Oh!”_ Aziraphale gasped. It was a bag of loose-leaf green tea, the label splashed with Chinese calligraphy that spelled out Dragon Well, one of the few Chinese phrases that Aziraphale had managed to retain literacy of after his short stay in the country all those years ago. Aziraphale was talented when it came to learning languages, but Mandarin was difficult in the best of circumstances, and without regular immersion, even he had trouble keeping up any semblance of fluency. At the time, some of his Chinese cohorts had introduced him to Dragon Well tea during his trip and he had fallen utterly in love with its gentle, sweet taste, and had bought several bags of it before returning home, all of which were sadly long gone. The bag Dr. Teng held was auspiciously marked with a ‘Superior’ grade sticker that promised to surpass any of the lower-quality grades he could afford as a young man, and even from the distance, Aziraphale could smell the aroma of the leaves. It was _heavenly_. He couldn’t resist closing his eyes and letting out an excited, satisfied hum.

“Now that’s the Aziraphale Fell I know,” Teng said, laughing heartily and pressing the bag into Aziraphale’s eager hands. “Come on. Let’s get started, shall we?”

\------------------------------

Dr. Teng and Aziraphale, blessed by the fact that they were able to skip the awkward step of introducing themselves and evaluating each others’ professional aptitude, dove straight into the rhythm of the work. 

It was, in short, a grueling process. Aziraphale read the reports Uriel had authored with experts from the Qin Mausoleum, which outlined, in painstaking detail, the exact condition of each of the 120 relics the museum was due to receive. He followed up with the post-exhibition reports from MUDEC in Milan; Aziraphale’s Italian was adequate but admittedly rusty, but luckily Dr. Teng had been the liaison there as well, and between the two of them, they were able to corroborate all the information as smoothly as one could hope. 

They reconvened with the couriers from the shipping company, checking and rechecking that each fragile piece had been properly packed in their custom-made, padded boxes that shielded them from shock and moisture, and that the appropriate security, temperature-control, and travel speed restrictions had been enforced during the journey. They reviewed customs paperwork and exhibition guidelines, Gabriel hovering over their shoulders with the occasional question about what China’s State Administration of Cultural Heritage had stated they could or couldn’t do. 

Finally, the courier staff got to work unpacking the artifacts, gingerly moving them with great skill and dexterity from their austere wooden boxes to the large, open space of the conservation room. 

Aziraphale watched in awe as safety straps and layers upon layers of acid-free paper were slowly undone, eventually revealing, among the smattering of bronze spears, crossbows, swords, and armor segments, twelve of the iconic terracotta statues: four lancers, two archers, two counselors, and four horses accompanied by a chariot. They were stunning works of art, the carved details on the armor and hints of bright, mineral-based colour still managing to shine through in sharp relief thanks to the tireless work of countless conservation scientists. One statue in particular, a kneeling figure, stood out in particular with a jacket coloured in pale green, striking ochre armor, and bright red belts criss-crossing his waist. 

Aziraphale hitched a breath in anticipation. Never in his life did he expect to see the Terracotta Statues this up close and personal again. These were utterly priceless heritage pieces, over two millennia old with class-one national protection, and to be standing so close to them, to be trusted to _work_ with them, in a larger capacity than simply watching over the shoulders of a group of experts in Xi’an, filled Aziraphale with equal parts overwhelming excitement and anxiety. 

He had a feeling Gabriel didn’t feel quite the same way. Once everything was properly unpacked and arranged in rows around the room in preparation for inspection, Gabriel gave Aziraphale a terse clap on the shoulder and retreated, presumably to resume working from his clean, orderly office. Aziraphale felt no small amount of relief once he was gone. Forget the fact that it was his overbearing brother; working while being watched had never been his forte.

The next several hours were an exercise in patience. Aziraphale and Dr. Teng set about inspecting each and every relic; one of them would kneel on the polished concrete floor and shine a torch at every possible angle of the item, dictating every scratch, polish, and ding, while the other sat cross-legged, a clipboard and camera at the ready to record it all. Then they would trade places for the next piece. Sleeves were rolled up. Brows were wiped off with handkerchiefs. A steady pile of spent Dragon Well tea leaves accumulated in the bin next to the small kitchenette in the corner of the room. Aziraphale failed to see how this, combined with frequent transcontinental air travel, was supposed to be the Mausoleum’s idea of a _less_ physically-taxing job for his elderly friend, but alas, it wasn’t really his place to comment. Dr. Teng, to his credit, kept up marvelously.

Aziraphale directed the rest of conservation staff during the entire process. He instructed them to hold up pieces at certain angles for the camera, carefully disassemble and store away the custom packaging for the relics’ eventual trip home, bring him tools, or take down notes on the repair and cleaning processes that would be needed for each specific piece. Dr. Teng rattled off a list of chemical treatments and preservation materials that each exhibiting museum would be required to use, and Aziraphale cross-referenced it with what inventory they had in their own labs and what services they would need to hire off-site. 

Thankfully, due to the relics’ status as part of a traveling exhibition, the most difficult work piecing together and restoring the statues had already been done, and the Royal Museum would only be responsible for keeping them in as pristine a condition as possible. All of the technical specifications, from temperature control to dust and pollutant reduction and visitor number limits, had been outlined in great detail by the conservators in Xi’an, and Aziraphale wouldn’t need to further elaborate on any of that for the staff here. He merely spent a few minutes on one of the department computers, compiling all of the documents into an easy-to-parse set of folders and making a note for one of the junior staff to digitize their inspection reports later. 

The sun set outside the tall glass windows of the room, turning the sky from blue to rose pink to deep navy. At seven, an intern bustled through the door, arms laden with bags of takeout from Aziraphale’s favorite local Indian restaurant, and the entire team shuffled into a nearby break room to take a scant thirty-minute supper, keeping the food a wide berth away from the fragile artifacts. The room was largely silent save for the sounds of chewing, no one having much energy to spare on conversation or other mischief. 

To Aziraphale’s chagrin, Gabriel popped back into the wing in the middle of this time, bundled up in his light grey overcoat and deep violet scarf, clearly on his way out for the night. He wrinkled his nose at the food and inquired after how they were doing, not leaving much time for Aziraphale to actually answer before giving him another one of his trademark claps on the shoulder and the curtest of thanks before sweeping back out the door as dramatically as he had come. The senior conservators all shot Aziraphale tired, sympathetic looks, and Dr. Teng made a petulant face at Gabriel’s retreating form, which at least got a giggle in response from some of the younger staff, slightly lifting the tired mood in the room before they all cleared their dishes and proceeded to get back to work.

At the end of it all, somewhere between eleven in the evening and midnight, Aziraphale was exhausted. The two men sat at one of the work tables in the corner, cross-checking their bilingual inspection reports with each other before dropping the finished, signed stacks of paper onto the shining steel surface with a thump, both breathing out tremendous sighs of relief. 

“The Museum will be able to handle guarding the artifacts for tonight,” Aziraphale said. “I made a phone call to Mr. Sandalphon in Security earlier, and he’s gotten overtime approval for his employees. The Head Conservator will be back tomorrow to coordinate third-party security services and arrange for the exhibition setup.”

Dr. Teng frowned. “You won’t be coming back to help arrange the exhibition?”

Aziraphale shook his head as he rummaged in a supply drawer for some binder clips to secure the documents together. “My involvement was something of a pinch hit for my brother. He only just called me this morning about it. Mx. Uriel Diabaye will resume full charge of everything once they return tomorrow.”

“I certainly hope you’re going to add a rush fee to your invoice, then. Director St. Claire had you do all the tedious work, while Mx. Diabaye will get credit for the actual exhibition. Calling the morning of? Ridiculous. I would’ve said no, brother or not. Not that I’m not grateful; you being here was certainly the biggest positive to an otherwise, what’s the word? Shit? Shit day.” 

Aziraphale had to breathe out a laugh at that as they exchanged tired smiles. He sighed again. As amazing as it was to (literally) get his hands on the Terracotta Warriors, Dr. Teng was right. This was certainly one case where he would be sure to get properly paid for his services, family or not.

And if his invoice included a rush fee out of pure professionalism, who was he to waive it? Wouldn’t want to set a bad precedent for other independent contractors in the industry, no. One should charge appropriately for appropriate services. Never mind the fact that the work was for his brother.

It was only fair.

\------------------------------

After saying his goodbyes to Dr. Teng and Anathema, who had also been working late in preparation for the John Singer Sargent exhibition that she and Michael were coordinating, Aziraphale found himself descending the front steps of the Royal Museum, the half-spent package of Dragon Well Tea sitting happily in his bag. Dr. Teng had thrust it onto him at the end of the night with such conviction in his small frame that Aziraphale was powerless to resist. It was the least he could do to bring it home and savour every cup. He’d have to send a thank you card or something later.

Night had fallen hours ago, and the air outside was crisp and clear, so he decided to take a short stroll along the river before making the trip home. He didn’t leave Soho very often these days, and could use some fresh air and a bit of exercise. 

The bank of the Thames was only a few blocks away from the Royal Museum, so it took just a couple minutes before Aziraphale could see it in the distance. He took his time, walking at a leisurely pace and indulging in his habit of people-watching as the city transitioned from the regular dinner time rush into that of colourful pubs and the late night crowd.

Aziraphale was just about to step off the curb and cross Fleet Street when a flash of auburn in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned, curious, and stopped in his tracks.

It was Crowley. Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale would’ve placed less confidence in his ability to recognize someone he had met exactly once, considering the dim evening light and the fact that the other man was at least a hundred feet down the street from him, but the distinct colour of the man’s hair and his signature swaggering walk was unmistakable. 

Crowley was pushing his way out of the sleek glass entrance to the famed Prince Consulting building, holding the door open for someone behind him. A tall black man, with a clearly-fit frame and handsome features, followed him out and nodded in acknowledgement, and the two of them began walking in Aziraphale’s direction. They were both wearing what looked like sportswear, Crowley cutting a sleek black silhouette in a tight long-sleeved thermal, tapered track bottoms, and rubber-soled trainers, the other man in similar joggers and a matching rust-coloured trainer and jumper combo that contrasted strikingly with his dark skin. Aziraphale noted that Crowley still wore the sunglasses from their first meeting, the round lenses pitch-black in the darkness of the late hour. 

Aziraphale idly wondered who the other man was; the two were clearly familiar with each other, chatting animatedly as they walked together. Aziraphale didn’t know too much about Prince Consulting, but he’d been around the area enough to know that it was a financial trading company and that its founder, Lucille Prince, was a generous patron of the arts, so perhaps Crowley had made a friend there through his work and was now stopping by to meet him for a late-night drink or an evening jog? 

He couldn’t help but notice how handsome the second man was, and felt a pang of _something_ flutter through his stomach when he saw the man give Crowley a gentle touch to the shoulder, Crowley throwing his head back in that way as he laughed in response to something they were conversing about. 

Aziraphale quickly chided himself at the involuntary moment of jealousy. He’d met the man once, for goodness’ sake! He had no claim to him, he frankly knew nothing about him, and even if he did, it’s not like Crowley wasn’t allowed to have his own friends. Even if they did seem much more interesting and nicer-to-look-at than his own portly, old-fashioned self--

In a sudden panic, Aziraphale realised that if he stayed at the street corner any longer, the two men would draw close and Crowley would see him. He had no idea if Crowley would _recognise_ him, but he didn’t feel equipped to deal with the possibility at the moment. Thankfully, the stoplight was still blessedly green, so Aziraphale saw his chance and took it, scurrying quickly across the street and turning the corner. 

Forget his riverside stroll. He would go home, make a steaming mug of hot cocoa, and find a nice new book to dive into to take his mind off things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting in late 2007, 120 objects and 12 warriors from the Terracotta Army were displayed in a special exhibition at the British Museum, which made 2008 the most successful year in the museum's history. 9 statues were also displayed in Milan in 2010, though this was at the Royal Palace, not MUDEC, like I've written here. 
> 
> The Royal Museum isn't a real place. For the sake of making writing the characters' antics inside easier :'D
> 
> I do hope that me going so into Aziraphale and Crowley's work isn't something that bores people! Personally, I've been having a blast learning about all sorts of different topics as I write this story. Rest assured our heroes will be interacting again soon <3
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, some needless trouble is brewing on the horizon for the Royal Museum.

_The London Daily Herald, October 24th, 2019_

_Arts & Culture_ | _Opinion_

_**“When Nepotism Usurps Reverence: The Royal Museum’s Questionable Treatment of Priceless Terracotta Statues”** _

_Exclusive Report by Carmine Zuigiber_

_Forget anyone reading this article, anyone with an inkling of sense for the topics of art and culture in our modern times knows this: London is one of the world’s most enticing places for museum-goers. From Trafalgar Square to Albertopolis, our fair City is home to countless galleries and cultural institutions, and houses millions of precious historical specimens and pieces of classical and modern art._

_Researchers and historians the world over scramble for the chance to pore over the bounty that London’s museums offer in the ever-evolving pursuit of cultural enlightenment and to, in the end, better understand the extraordinary capabilities of the human race, as well as the genius and fragility that come with it. Scholars and scientists spend years, decades, lifetimes pursuing their studies for the mere chance at someday laying their eyes upon priceless artefacts, or to be given the honour to analyse or restore said artefacts, up close and personal. The industry is notoriously difficult to break into, with few positions available and many, many skilled people competing for them._

_So this begs the question-- who gets to decide which scholars are privy to those rare opportunities?_

_The answer comes down to power, as it often has in the annals of human history._

_Late this November, London’s own Royal Museum is scheduled to open the UK’s very first exhibition of China’s legendary Terracotta Army. It’s the next stop in a traveling exhibition of the artefacts, arranged in partnership with several high-profile museums in the European Union and China’s State Administration of Cultural Heritage. The initial announcement was made a scant few months ago, and although a press release with further specifics about the UK stop is yet to be seen, from the exhibition’s last showing at Museo delle Culture (MUDEC) in Milan, Italy, visitors can expect to see at least ten of the iconic terracotta soldier statues, in addition to over a hundred other artefacts that were initially unearthed alongside the statues in Qin Shi Huang’s Mausoleum in eastern Xi’an, Shaanxi Province, China._

_Although the public advertising campaign for the exhibition leaves much to be desired, the Royal Museum has promised it to be nothing less than its best, and has already whipped up high expectations for the show in anticipation. One would think that when presenting such monumental works as the over 2,200-year-old relics, which enjoy the status of having the highest national protection China extends, careful and foolproof planning and preparation would be the given._

_Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to be the case._

_A photographer from the Daily Herald chanced upon the courier arrival of the statues to the museum early in the afternoon this past Tuesday. An anonymous source has divulged that the museum’s Head Conservator, Mx. Uriel Diabaye, was not even on-site to receive the delivery. In fact, no department head at all was there to receive the delivery. Instead, as the photos from our photographer below show, it appears that the individual appointed to receive these fragile, priceless artefacts was none other than Dr. Aziraphale Z. Fell._

_Don’t be fooled by the lofty title; Fell, who holds dual PhDs in Art History and Art Conservation Science, may seem to impress on paper, but the plain fact is this: he has not worked as a conservator at a proper institution for more than fourteen years. Fell’s last known post was at the British Museum, where colleagues tended to describe him as a soft touch, perhaps competent but not possessing the dogged fortitude one expects a head-level conservator to need in order to even make waves in the building where they work, much less the industry as a whole._

_Fell’s sudden departure from the British Museum in 2005 only created a ripple in the London art world by virtue of his lineage; he is, despite his surname, a son of the late Mason St. Claire, one of the esteemed founders and first director of what is today the world-famous Royal Museum. Gabriel St. Claire, the family’s eldest son, has now taken up the mantle after his father’s death, and has been carrying on his father’s legacy for the past decade. Michael St. Claire, the family’s only daughter, has also paved her own path as the museum’s Head Curator. Mason St. Claire’s late wife, Frances St. Claire (née Fell), was a talented rare book conservator and cartographer, renowned in the community for working with esteemed libraries around the world until the very day she passed away in early 2001. Clearly a knack for the industry runs in the family._

_Dr. Fell’s seems a muddier, more obfuscated story. He issued no statement when he left his post in 2005, which was incidentally very close to the time he chose to change his surname from St. Claire to his mother’s maiden name, Fell, a move that has also remained a mystery to the public, though one could suppose that curiosity about Fell’s personal life requires that he be of significant interest to the public eye first. From what little information has been available over the years, it seems that the younger St. Claire son does not keep close ties to his family and has not made any other evident waves related to his former museum work, besides maintaining a Fellowship at the Society of Antiquaries London, which at this point in his tenure amounts to little other than paying an annual due. What matters more is that Fell seems to lack the ambition and conviction that the rest of his family holds, and it resulted in an unexpected, abrupt end to his active career in the museum industry._

_So why, other than plain nepotism and poor planning from Gabriel St. Claire, would Fell possibly be chosen to receive relics such as the Terracotta Statues? As we mentioned before, there’s no shortage of talented academics who are chomping at the bit for the chance to work with such exalted artefacts, and yet the privilege was handed to a man who has already shown he lacks the fortitude needed for one to make a lifelong pursuit of art._

_There are many questions here: for one, how could the museum allow for such a valuable shipment to arrive unattended? How could their planning have been so poor that the artefacts could arrive, while the Head Conservator is still halfway across the world? And how could, with that situation already in place, Gabriel St. Claire be satisfied appointing his practically-estranged brother to kick-start one of, if not **the** , most important exhibitions in the Royal Museum’s history?_

_It’s a sorely disappointing move from Gabriel St. Claire, and certainly brings worry to the thought of what could happen to the statues when they’re being handled by a person with an outdated, lacklustre skill set. It begs the question of how future projects involving high-value works will be handled as well, and whether or not Director St. Claire truly puts in the level of care one should expect when it comes to the work that his highly-respected institution does._

_And for art enthusiasts, historians, or even just anyone who cares about the wellbeing of humanity’s most precious cultural artefacts, that is certainly grounds for concern._ ⚔

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a short one. But that's alright, as you'll soon see ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clock strikes midnight in Prague, Czech Republic, and Crowley, a highly-trained professional with a very specific skill set, sets his eyes on Sternberg Palace. Just an average day on the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 was a bit of a non-sequiter, so I thought I'd give you guys a double update this week!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read, subscribed, or commented! I love this AU to bits and I'm so glad others are enjoying it, too! And to those faithful commenters who pipe up after every update with theories, favorite plot points and the like, I see you, I love you, and you make my day every time <3
> 
> Thanks again to [Eileen](https://twitter.com/whereiseileen) for her ongoing help with British spelling and slang!

Crowley had to admit, Prague was really nice this time of year.

It was around ten degrees, brisk but leaving him comfortable enough in his thick, sherpa-lined black hoodie, skinny jeans, and woollen socks as he lounged on the open-air balcony of his deluxe room at the Alchymist Grand Hotel. 

He retrieved a slim leather case from his back pocket and tapped a clove cigarette out of it, dangling it between his lips as he clicked a silver lighter to the end in a single smooth motion. Smoke drifted from his lips as he savoured the aromatic flavours of the spices, the pinprick of light at the end of the cigarette just barely reflecting off the lenses of his sunglasses in the darkness of the night. 

The city was spread out in front of him from his high vantage point, the deep black of the night sky contrasted by the warm orange glow of street lamps and dimly-lit facades of buildings. The time was late enough on a weeknight that the city was still and quiet, a stunning, sprawling vista of historic beauty. _Maybe Dagon was right to be jealous after all_ , Crowley thought, casually blowing a few smoke rings out into the chilled air as he leaned on the cold metal railing. 

He spent a few more minutes lounging outside as his cigarette slowly burned down between his fingers when, in the distance, the telltale toll of the St. Vitus Cathedral bells chimed out, signalling midnight in a low and reverent tone. The majority of the lights illuminating Prague Castle in the distance flickered off, leaving only a few bright spots across the hilly complex. It was Crowley’s cue to flick his cigarette butt off the edge of the balcony and make his way back inside, closing the door and drawing the thick, gold-trimmed curtains behind him. 

It was time to get to work. 

He pulled his hoodie up over his head and shimmied out of his jeans, tossing both unceremoniously on the large queen bed before grabbing his travel bag from his luggage and setting it down at the richly-decorated red and gold vanity. 

He unzipped the bag and pulled out a set of freshly-laundered clothes, shaking each item loose as he laid them out. He slipped into the black long-sleeve thermal, an insulated athletic knit material that clung tight to his slender frame. Next was a pair of black convertible joggers in a soft nylon material that tapered at his ankles. A thin, close-fitting black crossbody sling bag completed the ensemble, which Crowley double-checked for all the odds and ends he had packed into it earlier before looping it over his shoulder and tightening the strap, twisting his body to and fro to make sure it stayed in place no matter how he moved. 

Crowley took off his sunglasses, folding them carefully on the table before sitting down on the little stool in front of the vanity and running a hand through his hair. He had given it a temporary dye treatment earlier that day, which had settled nicely into a deep brown colour. This was a common thing he did on jobs; Crowley’s natural hair colour was wildly conspicuous and therefore memorable, and it seemed like common sense to remove it from the equation when so many other risks were in the picture. Tonight he opted for a swept-back look, taking a comb to the dark brown locks and sweeping a generous amount of gel into it to lock it into place away from his eyes and forehead. Next was the matter of his tattoos; he retrieved his makeup kit from the bag and popped open his tube of concealer, squeezing a pea-sized amount onto a makeup sponge and dabbing it evenly over the side of his face and the back of his right hand, blending until he was satisfied that both snakes were sufficiently invisible. 

_Ah, the price I pay for being ostentatious in my personal life_ , he thought to himself wistfully. 

Crowley finished with his coverup and tucked everything back into his travel bag, before finally fishing out a small, hard-shell case from the front pocket and snapping it open. Inside was a sealed contact lens case, a small cylindrical electronic device, and a handheld remote, along with a requisition form from Prince’s research and development division, listing all the equipment he had requested for tonight’s job. The electronic device and remote he tucked safely into a zippered pocket of his sling bag before he twisted open the contact lens case, the seal breaking with a crackle. 

Contact lenses were another thing that Crowley commonly made use of at work, both his unusual eyes and trademark sunglasses being conspicuous features that would be better off hidden. Tonight’s lenses were coloured in a bright bottle green, and when Crowley slid them over his irises, he was pleased to see that the clever folks at R&D had added the new night-vision feature he had requested. He remembered quite an eventful annual showcase meeting a few months ago when R&D had announced that special-feature contacts would soon be available to field agents, and as someone who needed contacts for practically every job, Crowley had been first in line to test them out.

He turned off the light in his room, blinking experimentally to test the lens’ infrared capabilities. Crowley’s unique eye condition already lent him a certain degree of enhanced nighttime vision, but it paled in comparison to the high-tech thermographic sensors in the contacts. He could see every detail of the room clearly, albeit overlaid with a notable green tinge, from the delicate patterns on the embroidered comforter to the various pieces of black clothing that were strewn about. 

Satisfied, he left the light off and checked one last time to make sure he had everything he needed before slipping on his trusty, worn-in black trainers and leaving the room, taking the usually-deserted back stairwell down to the street and slipping quietly into the night.

\------------------------------

Sternberg Palace was less than a kilometre away from the Alchymist Grand, if one were to make a direct beeline for it. This, however, would involve cutting straight through Hradčany Square, the plaza smack dab in the middle of the Prague Castle complex, which anyone with half a brain cell would be able to tell was a lousy idea.

Crowley instead took the scenic route and headed east from the hotel, jogging at a leisurely pace as he mentally combed through his game plan one last time. It didn’t take him long to pass the Malostranska metro station, close to the Old Castle Staircase leading to the complex’s east entrance. It was the public entrance least likely to see traffic, but as Prague Castle was not only the Czech Republic’s most-visited tourist attraction but also the official office of the President, the path and entrance gate remained heavily guarded even now after visiting hours, and therefore presented too much of a risk to Crowley. 

The streets were largely empty at this hour, Crowley only occasionally passing an errant pedestrian, a wobbling drunk, or a fellow night-owl getting in their routine jog. Good, he thought to himself. No one who would pay him any mind. 

This was where the real work began. 

As he did with most jobs, he’d started his assignment in Prague by ordering a comprehensive photogrammetry scan of the area; in this case, the entire Prague Castle complex and the grounds surrounding it, so he could plan out how to best approach his mark whilst attracting as little attention as possible. Prince’s research team had deployed drones, taking thousands of aerial photos of the exterior, and then sending a local location scout to take interior photos and acquire blueprints of Sternberg Palace itself, compiling all of the data into detailed 3D models that were accurate to the centimetre. Crowley also requested that they track guard changes, tourist patterns, Palace event and staff schedules and the like, all of which he spent a week mulling over while formulating his plan. 

All this fuss for a bit of paint on a canvas or a rock carved into a specific shape, he often mused to himself. Well. Being on top of the details was what made Crowley the best, after all. And kept him out of jail. The staying out of jail part was important. 

He began circling north once he reached the bend in Chotkova Street, the top of Queen Anne’s Palace just barely visible in the distance. To the west of Chotkova Street lay the Deer Moat, a wild glen that originally served as a fortification for the castle grounds and a private hunting ground for the king. It was now transformed into a quirky public attraction consisting of shaded woods, stone steps, and creaky walkways, along with a long, paved pedestrian tunnel that ran under the famous Powder Bridge, which just so happened to be situated mere metres away from the northern facade of Sternberg Palace.

The Moat was closed to the public during the winter season, which had presented a slight handicap in that he hadn’t been able to scout the location beforehand during the day, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. 

He made sure there was no one in sight, then slipped into the woods off of Chotkova Street, finding the entrance to the Deer Moat in short order and hopping the barbed-wire gate with practised ease. 

The Moat followed the drained Brusnice Stream, creating a natural ravine surrounded by woods that conveniently hid Crowley from view as he followed the various paths towards the Castle, avoiding the wooden walkways lest the old boards creaked and alerted any nearby guards. The night-vision contacts were doing wonders, his vision not at all impeded despite his complete lack of a torch in the pitch-black darkness of the trees. 

He made it through the pedestrian tunnel without incident, and emerged to find himself on the other side of the Powder Bridge and approaching a small, grassy clearing directly to the north of Sternberg Palace. 

Crowley made sure to stay within the treeline, in case a stray guard fancied themself a midnight stroll along the open-air path, and climbed his way up the steep hill towards the building, senses heightening as he approached the complex proper. He hadn’t seen anyone on the outskirts of the grounds, but the Palace itself was a different matter.

Crowley crept slowly along the edge of the building, consciously softening his footfalls as the ground changed from dirt and grass to paved cobblestone. The castle grounds were dark, most of the lights having been switched off after the midnight bell-toll, leaving only a few essential areas lit in a pale, orange glow. He could see the flashing movement of torches in the distance, a clear indicator of guards on their rounds. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him it was just past one in the morning, which meant the guard shift had just changed. 

Thankfully, as far as the castle complex went, Sternberg Palace was one of its smallest, most naturally-hidden locations, as well as one of the least-trafficked of the eight National Gallery Prague buildings. It only had a ground, first, and second floor, the archive room that Crowley needed to reach being on the second floor, which made what he was about to do possible, though still daunting. 

“Alright, you old sod,” he muttered to himself, tucking himself behind a column as a guard passed him, turning the corner through an arch towards the front of the building, “it’s now or never.” 

He emerged from behind the column, going a few more metres along the edge of the building before he found what he was looking for: a large, gridded oak trellis bolted to the stucco wall, its interwoven framework carved in a flowering baroque fashion that matched the architectural style of the building it was attached to. It was just shy of two stories high, one vertical half filled with energetic, crawling ivy, the other half fairly empty, the ivy on that side seemingly giving up a few feet up from the ground. 

“Normally I’d be disappointed at an underachiever like you,” he whispered to the lazy ivy, “but tonight you’re making my job easier, so I’ll let it slide.”

He looked up past the trellis, searching for and finding the next piece of his plan: a window on the first floor above and to the left of the trellis, reinforced with a latticed iron security cage. And past that, on the second floor, another window, this one with a small, decorative wrought iron balcony. 

There was his in, just like his plans had shown.

Crowley sprung into action, keen on getting through the most physically tasking part of tonight’s job before the next guard swung around. He reached to unzip a pocket on his sling bag, fishing out a pair of black mechanic’s gloves and pulling them over his wrists. They were durable enough to withstand the friction of the wood and iron and keep splinters at bay, but thin and grippy so that he could maintain maximum dexterity during the climb. And most of all, they kept him from leaving any fingerprints. 

He carefully made his way up the trellis, testing each beam for its integrity before putting his weight on it, and taking care to avoid jostling the ivy. Before long he was at the top, staring at the latticed security cage of the first-floor window.

“Easy does it,” he muttered under his breath as he shifted slowly from the trellis to the cage, one limb at a time. At times like these, it paid to be as thin as he was, the cage easily supporting his slender frame as he left the trellis entirely. He made the scant few steps it took to reach the top edge of the window, and then looked up at his biggest challenge of the night. 

The bottom balcony edge surrounding the second-floor window was a good two and a half metres above the top of the security cage he was currently perching on. Crowley wasn’t tall enough to reach it outright, nor would he be able to manoeuvre himself towards it and still keep a sturdy foothold on the cage. To reach it, he would need to perform what rock climbers called a dyno-- or, in layman’s terms, he would have to _fucking jump._

Asmodeus had thought Crowley was insane when he told him about this plan last week. 

_“Are you sure you can handle a jump this far, old-timer?” he said, frowning at the 3D model of Sternberg Palace Crowley had pulled up on his laptop, which Crowley had annotated in several places with measures of distance._

_“Oi,” Crowley replied, giving him a light-hearted smack on the arm, which earned him a laugh. “I don’t recall you complaining about my age that one night after the Belize job.” He smirked knowingly at the other man. “Anyway, that’s why I’m asking you to come spot me at the gym, so I don’t break my neck before even setting foot in Prague.”_

_Asmodeus hummed, rubbing his chin in thought. “You ask for a facsimile?”_

_“Yep,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis purely to be obnoxious. “Ready today they said.”_

_“Well then,” Asmodeus breathed out, “what are we waiting for?”_

R&D, in addition to providing valuable information and high-tech equipment, also employed a small team of builders whose sole job was to create facsimiles of locations and simulate scenarios for agents like Crowley to test their plans in a hands-on way. (Bless the entire research & development division, really-- Crowley would’ve been up shit creek years ago without being allowed to liberally cock up in the safety of the company gym before going out to do the real thing). One could never be too careful when anywhere from thousands to millions of pounds were on the line.

He had asked the team to create an exact replica of the trellis and two windows he was currently scaling, which they’d set up on a weighted, freestanding wall panel surrounded by safety mats next to the bouldering wall in the gym. And it was here that Crowley and Asmodeus met, for a few hours every day, to practise the climb.

Crowley had fallen a lot that week. He’d always been a natural climber, possessing a wiry strength and precision that served him well on rock walls and urban playgrounds alike, but this time he found himself getting coached pretty thoroughly by Asmodeus on the finer details of dynoing. His cohort was something of a rock climbing enthusiast, which was lucky for Crowley, but definitely resulted in him inadvertently giving the other man a lot of ammunition for teasing, given how many times he found himself on the ground, facedown, or in otherwise unflattering positions during their sessions. 

Nonetheless, the practise was fruitful; by the end, Crowley was making the jump successfully nine times out of ten, which was all he could ask for before he ran out of time and had to book his flight. In the meantime, he had treated Asmodeus to several dinners in thanks.

Now the moment of truth had come, this time with no safety mats in sight.

He stared at the bottom edge of the decorative balcony above him and experimentally swung his body up and down a few times from where he was latched outside the first-floor window, judging the distance one last time. 

In the back of his head, he knew he now had less than a minute to make the jump before the next guard was due to come around the corner. Not to mention he was starting to run the risk of a night watchman coming down the hall inside the museum, only to see a skinny, black-clad gargoyle clinging to the side of the building. 

_It’s now or never_ , he thought to himself, dipping into a low crouch by straightening out his arms and bracing his feet against the iron bars of the cage. He took a deep breath.

Crowley exploded upwards, pulling his arms up from their holds with lightning speed and pushing his feet down with as much force as he could muster. They parted contact with the bars and for a split second, his entire body was airborne. He felt himself reach the crest of the jump, momentum slowing, and chose that exact moment to fling his arms up, his right hand slipping but his left finding purchase on the wrought-iron edge of the decorative second-floor balcony with a colliding, satisfying _thunk._

Crowley anticipated the swinging momentum of his body immediately after, sticking his legs out to brace them on the plastered wall of the building and just barely managing to reign in a whoop of excitement. He breathed out a sigh of relief, heart pounding in his chest from the utter exhilaration of it all. 

But he still had a job to do. And the clock was ticking.

Crowley pulled up, his left arm straining to lift the weight of his entire body just enough so he could hook his right hand onto the ledge as well. He then rearranged his hands onto the vertical bars of the balcony and swung from side-to-side until the momentum brought his legs up above his head, one heel latching onto the top edge of the railing and allowing him to push himself up over the bars to land in a soft crouch just in front of the window.

He drew a switchblade from his pocket, ejecting the darkened blade and neatly sliding it in between the window frame and the sash lock on the inside. The window was old, the lock and corresponding latch dated, and after just a few wiggles with the blade, he managed to flip it. Crowley tucked the knife back into his pocket and slid the window open, ducking inside the building and pulling the window closed behind him. 

He was in. 

It was dim inside the Palace, the normally bright and airy hallways almost claustrophobic in their darkness. A few emergency lights dotted the walls, their pale glow reflecting off of the iridescent golds that were so prevalent in the plethora of religious iconography that filled the second floor. Sternberg was known for Old Master European works, from Classical all the way to Baroque, and from the few pieces Crowley could see, it did not disappoint.

He didn’t have time to stop and smell the roses though, and went off down the hall in search of the archive room, which was guarded by a fairly standard pin tumbler lock. Crowley retrieved the cylindrical electronic device R&D had given him from his bag, opening the casing to reveal an electric lock pick. In a deft few movements, he attached the needle, slotted it into the lock, and fired the rod, all before proceeding to try the door handle.

It didn’t budge.

Crowley frowned. He tried again. And again, after double-checking that the needle was correctly mounted onto the pick. 

“Blast,” he whispered to himself. The thing was apparently defective. It was highly uncharacteristic of R&D to mess up a device so simple, but Crowley wasn’t about to let it ruin his night. He shoved the unhelpful thing back into his bag and instead drew out his old, battered manual lock pick set, mentally thanking the stars that he always carried it with him. He listened intently for any sign of night watchmen and, when he was satisfied that they were nowhere to be found, resumed his task.

Crowley slid a tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, then inserted a hook pick as far into the lock as it would go, gently lifting it along increments inside the cylinder to feel for the binding pin. It was an almost zen process, lifting each pin until he heard the faintest possible click, signalling that it had been successfully set to the shear line. Within seconds, he felt the last pin click free and the door swung open, inviting him into the large, spacious archive room. He closed the door behind him and smirked to himself, tucking the lock pick set away in exchange for the last piece of equipment he had requested.

Crowley’s mark tonight was a small study in charcoal, the last surviving work by an all-but-unknown 14th century Italian painter named Serafino Mezzoli which had apparently found itself in the private collection of Archduke Franz Ferdinand way back when, but was subsequently lost in the flurry of the first World War. How it eventually turned up, Crowley didn’t know, but the NGP had acquired it recently for safekeeping with the intent of eventually adding it to Sternberg Palace’s permanent collection, much of which had also originally come from the good Archduke’s collection. 

All of this was very much outside the realm of public knowledge. The exclusive nature of the little drawing, the mystery of its little-known artist and the notoriety of its collector, and its obscure reputation as a relic lost to war made it very valuable to those few esoteric collectors who knew about it, which meant that whoever had hired him to pinch it must have friends in very high places indeed. Crowley had seen the numbers, and if he did his job right, payday was going to be _exorbitant._

Sternberg Palace didn’t have fancy laser grids or a comprehensive CCTV surveillance system like many higher-profile institutions, instead choosing to rely on its intensive regiment of guards and its location surrounded by difficult-to-traverse terrain, through which it would be nigh impossible to covertly and safely transport most of the artwork housed inside. Parts of the archive room and some of the most valuable pieces did however employ a variety of motion sensors that were linked to a central alarm system, the triggering of which would no doubt alert every security guard in the building.

To combat this, Crowley had brought with him a portable electromagnetic pulse, a handheld thing that he had requested specifically to have just enough range to render the sensors in the archive room inert without affecting the electrical system in the rest of the building. He clicked the switch on the device; the coil inside emitted a faint buzz, and right on cue, all the lights that dotted the room, from the floor-level emergency lighting to the small red LEDS atop the motion sensors, flickered out, plunging the windowless space into total darkness. 

Crowley relied thoroughly on the augmented vision that his contacts provided him as he began to prowl through the dark room in search of his prize, eventually finding it sitting in a labelled wooden shipping box in one of the multiple rows of sliding wire storage racks towards the back. It had just arrived at the museum a few days ago and had only been opened for a quick once-over, which served Crowley’s purposes well. According to his intel, the piece wasn’t scheduled to be worked on for at least another week, by which time he would be long gone. 

He slid the box out of its rack and eased open the already-loosened lid with his switchblade, removing the custom-cut styrofoam spacers and lifting out the plastic-wrapped rectangular package inside, placing it gingerly on the floor. He took a moment to peel off his gloves, dirty with grit from his climb up the exterior of the building, exchanging them for a clean, disposable nitrile pair from his bag. He carefully peeled open the packing tape on the plastic and slid out the drawing, which was sandwiched between two pieces of thick plexiglas sealed by archival tape, which he undid with just as much care. 

“Aren’t you a beauty,” he whispered, admiring the delicate wisps of charcoal that floated across the aged paper in the shape of idyllic, rolling hills on a summer’s day, at least as much as one could when looking at the thing with green-tinted night vision in a pitch-black room. “I apologise in advance for the next thirty minutes or so I’m about to subject you to.” He eased his sling bag over his head, unzipping the padded main compartment and pulling out a small, steel carrying tube and unscrewing the top. 

A test sniff of the artwork told him that thankfully the piece had been sprayed with fixative before being shipped, which saved him the stress of potentially smudging the artwork in transit. He pulled two sheets of pre-cut parchment paper from his tube and laid them out atop one of the sheets of plexiglas, weighing the corners down with the styrofoam spacers. He gently moved the drawing on top of one piece, then covered it with the other, folding over the excess and securing it with his own roll of archival tape, ever-so-carefully rolling the whole thing up and sliding it into a waterproof plastic sleeve before easing it into the steel tube and twisting the lid firmly shut. 

The two pieces of plexiglas he sealed back up with their original pieces of tape, sliding them back into their plastic sheeting and slotting the styrofoam spacers back into place. He made sure that the sachet of silica gel, placed in the package to prevent dampness, was in its original place and settled everything back into the wooden box, sealing the lid back up to just the same  
level of looseness it had been before. Once he slid the box back into its place on the storage rack, it looked as if it had never been touched at all. 

Crowley packed the metal tube containing the artwork back into his bag and slung it over his head once again, double-checking the strap to ensure it was secure. Satisfied, he spent a moment making sure everything in the room was exactly as he had initially found it, then made his way back towards the door with just his escape from the grounds left to go. 

He knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped into the hallway.

The emergency lights in the hallway had gone dark. 

_All_ the lights had gone dark, as far down the hall as he could see.

Well, perhaps this was premature, because mere seconds after he registered the darkness of the hallway, all of the lights suddenly turned _on_. _Including_ the regular, non-emergency lights.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Crowley cursed under his breath, and bolted.

There was only one explanation for the lights outside the archive room having fizzled out: his EMP had affected a much wider range than he had specified, and shut down the lights in the entire building, which had no doubt alerted the guards. And in the time it had taken him to move the artwork from its box to his bag, someone had made it to the breaker panel and reset all the switches, turning all the lights in the building back on. It was only by sheer coincidence that Crowley had made it out of the archive room before this happened; if the breakers had been reset while he was still inside, there was no doubt in his mind that he would’ve tripped one of the motion sensors and set off the alarm.

Although by sheer luck the guards didn’t yet know _why_ the power in the building had gone out, the fact was this: Crowley was now fully, thoroughly exposed. 

In the blink of an eye, all of the information about night guard schedules and protocols that Crowley had so meticulously memorised became moot. He heard shouting coming from down the corridor, and although his Czech wasn’t stellar, it told him that the guards were already off-route, agitated, and definitely suspicious that something was up. The Palace hallways were wide and open and housed mostly paintings, with much to be desired in the way of hiding places. Traversing them with no knowledge of where he might run into a guard was far too risky. He had to get out of the building fast, or someone was bound to see him.

In short order, he reached the window he had come in through, slipping back out and locking it behind him with his knife in equal attempts to be as quick and noiseless as possible. He pressed himself close to the wall just outside of view, peering down at the cobblestone path beneath the window as he saw another guard disappear around the corner of the building below. Luckily, it seemed the effects of his unruly EMP hadn’t extended to outside the Palace, and the movements of the exterior guards still matched the schedule he had racing through his brain. He didn’t know how long he could count on that to remain true though, given the muffled voices he could still hear echoing from inside.

His original plan of weaving his way downstairs via the inside of the building and leaving through the gardens was shot, so Crowley had to improvise. It wasn’t ideal, but with no more time to think about it, he did something very risky: he vaulted over the railing of the second-floor balcony, briefly connecting with the security cage outside the first-floor window to slow his momentum before kicking off of it into a flying leap that skipped the wooden trellis entirely. 

Crowley hit the cobblestone ground with a thump, the rubber soles of his trainers thankfully dampening the sound, and transitioned smoothly into a diagonal roll, his shoulder and back muscles absorbing most of the shock. He uncurled his body back onto its feet at the end of the roll and immediately rose into a sprint, booking it as fast as he could while still keeping his footfalls silent. He reached the treeline with haste and started to slide down the hill just as he saw the ray of a guard’s torchlight come into view in his periphery, likely the one he had seen rounding the corner just then coming back to investigate the sound he had made landing the jump. A second ray of light appeared from the opposite direction, and Crowley heard voices behind him as the two guards converged. He didn’t dare to look. Instead, he wasted no time hoofing it back through the Deer Moat the same way he had come, hopping back over the barbed-wire gate next to Chotkova Street in nearly half the duration it took him on the way in. He just barely remembered to stop himself before leaving the safety of the woods, screeching to a halt and checking for civilians before breathing a sigh of relief at the thoroughly empty street. 

Crowley reached into his bag one last time and pulled out a packable athletic jacket, unfurling it from its tightly compacted case and pulling it over his head, the loose fit effectively hiding his bag from view. The nitrile gloves he stripped off, stuffing them into his pocket in exchange for a pair of earbuds that weren’t plugged into anything but he slid into his ears anyway. 

He took a final deep breath, and stepped back out onto the street, ambling into the same light jog he’d been having a little over an hour ago and heading back in the direction of the Alchymist Grand, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired at all.

\------------------------------

“You _jumped_ from the second-floor window?” Asmodeus said in disbelief, passing Crowley an alarmingly mint-green cocktail decorated with a sprig of elderflower.

“Yup,” Crowley said, taking a gulp of the drink with blind faith in his cohort, before coughing violently and shooting the other man a thoroughly overdramatic scowl. “What the _fuck_ is _this_?”

“Necromancer,” Asmodeus replied, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Thought it was very you.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him (not that it mattered, through the sunglasses), momentarily placated by the decidedly matched-his-aesthetic name, and took another, more careful sip. 

“Ah,” he said, the slide of the liquor burning his throat on the way down. “Elderflower liqueur, lemon juice, gin, and is that...Lillet Blanc? But blimey, the _fucking absinthe._ ”

“Five for five,” Asmodeus exclaimed, wiggling all his fingers on one hand. “Impressive.”

“Bit flowery though,” Crowley responded, taking another sip. “Think I prefer my Corpse Revivers, with an extra hit on the lemon juice, over this.”

“You would. Dry and sour, just like you,” Asmodeus teased, earning him a look that would’ve sent many a lesser man running for the hills.

They were sitting at an out-of-the-way bar inside a posh, neon-lit club in London, where Asmodeus had dragged him practically as soon as he arrived back in town from Prague, supposedly in celebration of his successful liberation of the Mezzoli. Crowley knew better, though. The other man just wanted to get soused before having to face the task of burglarising the legendary Sotheby’s auction house in Paris, a task Crowley did not envy.

“I’m getting too old for your funny business, Asmodeus,” he said, staring off at the flashing dance floor, which was writhing with bodies.

Asmodeus scoffed, shifting the lapels of his dark, chestnut-coloured leather jacket. “Says the man who successfully made a seven-metre jump onto cobblestone, while carrying a 14th-century masterwork on his back.”

“Sheer devil’s luck that I didn’t break an ankle,” Crowley replied, running a hand through his hair, which was finally starting to return to its natural brightness, the dark brown dye almost washed out now after a few showers. 

“Well, you wouldn’t have had to jump at all if not for that EMP mixup,” the other man said, rubbing his chin between thumb and forefinger.

Crowley hummed, swirling the remainder of his cocktail in his glass. “The electric pick, too. ‘S never happened before, not even once.” 

“Maybe you should look into it,” Asmodeus mused, leaning his back against the sleek, glass counter. “Y’know...discreetly.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, but he had to admit, the man had a point. Giving faulty equipment to a field agent was a fireable mistake for an R&D employee, and unless there was a bumbling intern with a death wish that he didn’t know about, the scenario of _two_ of his gadgets having flaws smelled very fishy.

Fishy. Crowley’s brain suddenly clicked into sync. He had a pretty good idea what had transpired now, and he knew what he had to do next, but these were suddenly dangerous waters. 

“ _Well_ ,” he exclaimed, a touch too loudly to be convincing. “Nothing to do about it right this second, what d’you say we just give you a proper sendoff before your flight tomorrow night? Got the whole morning to sleep it off, should make the most of it.” He waggled his eyebrows enticingly, sliding the cocktail menu over to him across the glass countertop.

Now, Asmodeus was a smart man; he had both been in their shared line of work and indeed known Crowley long enough to recognise that this display was a metaphorical shuttering of his emotional barriers. Whatever had just happened in the churning gears of Crowley’s mind, he had deemed it private, and no amount of attempting to be a good friend would coax it out of him now. That was just the way Crowley was. It was the reason Asmodeus had only seen Crowley’s eyes once, that fateful night in Belize so many years ago, but they had been a piercing shade of blue that he knew wasn’t real. It was the reason Asmodeus called him Crowley, but Crowley called him Asmodeus, even though the other man knew what his real name was. As long as they did what they did at Prince, Crowley had made it resolutely clear: he wasn’t a friend. He was, first and foremost, the Serpent of Eden. 

But Asmodeus was selfish. He would take whatever Crowley deigned to give, even if he could never have what he really wanted. So Julian Zakaria Ibrahim, ignoring the ache in his heart, took the offered cocktail menu. He flashed Crowley a small smile, then called the bartender over with a wave.

\------------------------------

Crowley stumbled back across the threshold of his flat in Mayfair at half past three in the morning, nearly tripping over his own feet as he contorted his body into various pretzel shapes in an effort to yank off his boots and coat, finally flinging them haphazardly into the coat closet with definitely more force than necessary.

He managed to get some water from the kitchen, proud that (slightly) more of it ended up in the glass than spilled all over his black marble counters. Holding the glass with both hands and staring resolutely at it like a man half-possessed, he wobbled his way to his home office and flopped onto his preposterous gold-and-red throne, body sagging into it as if it had no bones at all. 

He was, well and truly, plastered. Egged on by Asmodeus after the initial Necromancer, the two of them had gone on an absinthe cocktail tour of sorts, each of them eventually downing anywhere from five to eight (he couldn’t remember) of the drinks before the bartender got sick of their drunken debates about whether John Cale or Doug Yule was the superior Velvet Underground bassist, and had the bouncers forcibly shepherd them each into a cab home. It was a miracle he hadn’t thrown up on the cabbie when he handed him the fare. 

Crowley took a shaky sip of water, spilling some of it onto the polished concrete floor. “ _Fuckn’abssssinthe_ ,” he muttered under his breath, his brain knocking around inside his skull like a chaotic, turbulent whirlpool. Tomorrow was going to be absolutely _vile_.

He _was_ getting too old for this shit. 

“Y’know, ol’ girl,” he slurred at Crawley, who looked back at him from inside her terrarium with such clear disdain that he couldn’t even tell if it was real or just him projecting via his thoroughly sloshed state, “Life’sss short. Fffuck it, I say.” He sunk deeper into his throne, taking his phone out of his pocket. “....Fuck it.”

It was a night for bad decisions, it seemed. So Crowley, still floating on the drunken haze of his impromptu celebration with Asmodeus, remained true to himself and made a very bad decision indeed.

He rang Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The locations and aspects of the Prague Castle complex in this chapter are accurate to the best of my ability, although Serafino Mezzoli and the piece Crowley stole are fictional. I did a lot of Google Street Viewing when I researched this chapter, haha.
> 
> [Night vision contacts](https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/233340) are real, although they're probably a few years away from being more than a wildly-experimental prototype.
> 
> [Dynoing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kmg6lpRLcQI) is one of the most difficult, dangerous moves in climbing. Don't try it without proper safety precautions, and _definitely_ not on unstable holds whilst breaking into a heavily-guarded castle complex in the dead of night.
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a not-so-smart drunk call, Aziraphale and Crowley cross paths once again, both wondering if this could be the start of something more than another simple transaction between professionals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of people reacted positively to Asmodeus last week; he's in this story a lot more than I expected too and I'm super fond of him, so I made a [quick sketch](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/50919841018_267279c660_z.jpg) of what he looks like!

Anthony J. Crowley was an enigma. 

The man was, simultaneously, flamboyantly showy and frustratingly opaque, giving off the impression that he enjoyed being the centre of attention but kept all personal detail close to the chest. 

Anthony J. Crowley was an enigma who, exactly two days ago, had _drunk called Aziraphale at half past three in the morning_. The only reason Aziraphale had even managed to answer it was because his insomnia had struck extra hard after an especially trying phone call he’d received from Gabriel late that night, in which his brother had gone on about some lofty opinion piece that had been published in the _Daily Herald_. Apparently one of the paper’s photographers had chanced upon Aziraphale and Dr. Teng receiving the Terracotta Warrior statues at the museum a week or so ago, and a reporter had, for some reason, taken this as an opportunity to snipe at Aziraphale’s semi-retired status, dig into his murky status as a somewhat-former member of the famous St. Claire family, and deem his working on the exhibition as an example of poor taste and nepotism on Gabriel’s part. It _was_ unconventional, for sure, but Aziraphale was perfectly qualified, thank you very much. The fact that Gabriel had cajoled him into working on the statues despite surely being capable of finding other conservators who _weren’t_ semi-retired or related to him or likely to get him accused of nepotism, well-- that was another can of worms entirely. Gabriel had been the one to initiate this whole situation after all, not that his brother seemed to realise that considering the accusatory tone he’d directed at Aziraphale during the call. It was all very uncalled for; Aziraphale had tried, albeit a bit timidly, to say as much, but listening to others had never been Gabriel’s strong suit.

Gabriel _hanging up on him_ after his unfairly-directed rant had been the final nail in the coffin. Aziraphale had felt fidgety and rather upset, and the two cups of Ceylon tea he stress-downed afterwards hadn’t exactly helped him turn in. So instead, he’d still been up in his workshop, putting the finishing touches on a handsome set of brass apothecary scales he had recently acquired, when his phone rang once again.

Crowley, fighting through an impressive slurring of his vocal faculties, had opened the call spectacularly by asking if Aziraphale was, quote, “vailable for his sssssservices, sssame sssitchion’s’lasss time, bebber las’time?” Aziraphale had been startled out of his mind at the unusual hissing noises emanating from his phone, and it had taken the good part of a minute and what felt like several rounds of chasing a goose around a park bench in circles, before he could suss out who the blazes he was even talking to. This was because Crowley had gone through a brief struggle of saying his own name, and then a significantly longer struggle of enunciating Aziraphale’s, an excruciating couple of seconds that left Aziraphale unsure of whether he should laugh or cry at the man’s plight. In the end, he’d settled on a sort of disbelieving, strangled silence.

When all was said and done however, the fact of the matter was this: two days ago, Crowley had called Aziraphale and asked for another after-hours art authentication at his shop.

And two days ago, something or Someone, in the eyes of the Lord or Her Majesty the Queen or quite possibly the bored ghost of Oscar Wilde, had convinced him, in the face of this completely unexpected and improbable turn of events, to say yes.

And now two days later, Dr. Aziraphale Zachariah Fell, PhD, former Head Conservator of the British Museum, was standing in front of his bedroom mirror (a full-length Queen Anne style cheval from the early 1920s, carved from a lovely walnut that Aziraphale had sanded and re-stained himself), fussing between several outfits he had laid out on his cosy queen-size four-poster bed with all the demeanour of a prepubescent secondary school student about to go on a first date.

 _Good Lord, what is the matter with me?_ It was a professional meeting, for goodness’ sake. Clients came to him for his expertise. Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he had even considered what he was wearing for the sake of professional purposes. He was very fond of his vintage sartorial sensibilities, sure, but that was for _him_ , not anyone else. People who came to the shop for purchases or repairs really couldn’t give a baboon’s arse about what he wore. Even the antiques conferences and the quarterly Society of Antiquaries council meetings he attended were casual affairs nowadays; as long as Aziraphale didn’t show up wearing a potato sack and hollowed-out baguettes for shoes, rest assured things would be golden. 

Regardless, Aziraphale felt some kind of _need_ for this meeting. So here he was, trying to make himself look (or at least feel) presentable.

He ended up settling for a trustworthy old favourite: a light grey suit that he had gotten made on Savile Row all the way back in 1997, when he had been just twenty-eight years old. Owning a bespoke Savile Row suit had been one of young Aziraphale’s wildest dreams as soon as he discovered his love for fashion, and after growing into an adult and saving for years and years, receiving his first major bonus of his career had finally pushed him over the edge. He had had to take the suit in for a few minor adjustments and fixes over the years, but it still fit him miraculously well. Aziraphale had always been rather the same soft, rounded shape since he came of age, he supposed.

The suit was cut from a wonderfully textured, lightweight linen, both the trousers and double-breasted waistcoat accented by pearlescent shell-white pinstripes. The matching jacket Aziraphale decided to leave in his wardrobe, outerwear seeming too stuffy for puttering about and possibly working inside his shop. He chose a well-loved but neatly starched white dress shirt, and looped his champagne-coloured silk ascot around the wingtip collar, tying it with a flourish and securing it with his favourite gold angel-wing clasp. He decided on a simple symphony fold for the matching pocket square, tucking it into place alongside his trusty gold pocket watch and finally trading his house slippers for a pair of handsome monk-strap loafers, their cap toes embossed with an elegant herringbone pattern.

The shop was already closed and Aziraphale was in no mood to idle, so he set about preparing a quick supper. Truth be told, he had his doubts about whether this meeting with Crowley was going to happen or not, considering the circumstances under which it had been scheduled, but one did their best to be prepared for any eventuality. Meeting or not, he would eventually have to eat, so it seemed like a sensible course of action.

Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and flicked on the stove for the kettle, then turned to ransack his kitchen cupboards as he waited with bated breath.

\------------------------------

Crowley ambled into the shop fifteen minutes past their agreed upon time of seven PM with a flat, rectangular wooden shipping box under his arm and an expression on his face that attempted to convince Aziraphale that he was his regular, effortlessly-cool self, but was ultimately betrayed by the slight fluster in his cheeks, obvious despite the stylish round sunglasses Aziraphale had come to recognise as his trademark of sorts. He was bundled up in a [high-collared wool coat](https://64.media.tumblr.com/fc2c2f13a2f7bce82e861e4b6f9c60f9/tumblr_mgccner7PH1s0s9zxo1_500.gif), accented by a sleek leather strap that cut diagonally across his chest. Military-like, almost. Underneath, the man sported a pair of very close-fitting-- were those honest-to-God leather?-- trousers, a pair of perforated [Dunhill driving gloves](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5a/d8/78/5ad8784b904b2f5364437003b1fc59af.jpg), and the snakeskin boots he had worn to their first meeting. Everything in black, of course.

“Aziraphale, before you say anything,” Crowley began, pausing to clear his throat. “I apologise. For what I-- for whatever I may have said on the phone that night. Don’t remember all the details, if I’m honest, though you might’ve guessed that.”

“To be honest, dear man, I’m impressed that you remember making that phone call at all, let alone our meeting time,” Aziraphale said, closing and locking the shop’s front door after Crowley had cleared the entryway. “Though,” he continued with a coy smile, pulling his pocket watch out and making a show of clicking it open, “I’m afraid you’re a few minutes tardy. For shame.”

Crowley groaned and looked up at the ceiling, as if pleading for some higher power to rescue him from the pickle he’d gotten himself into, the worst of which by far was being scolded by a man who’d often been told he looked like a Victorian-era English professor. 

Aziraphale was extremely tickled by the whole thing. There was something so very vulnerable about the man standing before him, a veritable crack in the seemingly impenetrable, too-cool armour that Crowley had managed to keep intact throughout their first meeting. Aziraphale had expected it to take a lot longer for him to be awarded the privilege of getting a glimpse through that armour (if he was able to get through at all), and for it to be presented to him on nothing less than a silver platter, with no real effort on his part, left him wondering whether he a) was just incredibly lucky, or b) had misjudged the man entirely. 

“How are you getting on tonight, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked conversationally as they made their way into the shop. 

“Still fighting off the aftertaste of the world’s shittiest hangover, if ‘m honest,” Crowley replied as he followed Aziraphale, swivelling his head to look at the messy-as-ever setting that was the inside of A.Z. Fell & Co., in every corner a dusty new detail to be found. He spotted, within the span of just a few seconds, a small, aged bronze sculpture of the Roman god Mercury, a glass display case containing an enormous, positively ancient-looking gold-inked Quran, and a yellowing globe in an antiqued brass floor stand that depicted continents that were most certainly pre-tectonic shift. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale nodded sagely. “What was the poison of the night, if I may ask?”

“Absinthe,” Crowley said, groaning again. Just the thought of the green liquid was making his stomach turn. “Cocktails. Five? Or eight, maybe. Dunno.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale replied sympathetically, but not before stifling a giggle with his hand. Eight was an impressive number of cocktails to begin with; eight _absinthe_ cocktails was truly staggering. Part of him was impressed that Crowley was more or less operating regularly now, even a full two days later.

“Heard that,” Crowley said sharply, shooting him a relatively toothless glare, made only slightly intimidating by the stark black lenses of his sunglasses. Aziraphale merely looked away, whistling out a jaunty, non-specific tune. 

They reached something like a central foyer in the shop that Crowley hadn’t seen during his previous visit. It was circular, supported at four corners by round, plastered yellow pillars that shot up into the open space and revealed a second-floor balcony edged by flourished iron railings, a narrow, matching spiral staircase winding up from the ground to their right. There was a large, standout compass rose laid in varying hues of polished stone at their feet, and as Crowley looked up, he saw that the curving base of the second floor beneath the railings had four large, decorative brass letters circling it, each denoting a cardinal direction that corresponded to the four main arms of the rose. A quick mental recall of the area confirmed that the compass was indeed geographically accurate, which left him impressed. 

“The workshop is this way,” Aziraphale said, gesturing in the direction of the East marker with a wave of his arm. “I must confess, however,” he began with a note of hesitation, “that I was not entirely sure this meeting would happen tonight, given your, er, state, when you called. Not that I blame you for it at all, dear boy,” he added quickly. 

Crowley wrinkled his forehead and shrugged good-naturedly. “Fair,” he conceded, waiting to see where Aziraphale was going with this line of conversation. 

Aziraphale fussed with the edge of his waistcoat. “Hence, I was actually in the middle of preparing dinner when you arrived. I was wondering if I could…?” He gestured aimlessly towards the spiral staircase.

“Oh, god, Aziraphale, yeah,” Crowley blurted. “Don’t let me keep you from your dinner.”

“Are you sure? It could wait until after--”

“No, s’fine. You’re right, it’s a miracle I showed up at all, late too, s’the least I could do to let you eat your dinner.” He held an arm out towards the staircase. “I insist.”

Aziraphale gave him that bright, wide smile that he had, and Crowley cursed himself internally. 

“Well alright,” he said. “Why don’t you come up, I’ll make you a cup of tea while I’m at it.” 

Aziraphale started up the spiral staircase, and Crowley followed. It was incredibly cramped, barely wide enough for one person, but charmingly perfect in context of its surroundings. They made it up onto the second floor landing, which opened up into a cosy den with a central coffee table flanked by two squashy-looking old floral sofas and a few wingback armchairs. Some smaller chairs and side tables lined the balcony railings, and the whole space was lined with rows upon rows of mismatched bookshelves, each overflowing with old tomes. What couldn’t fit on the bookshelves normally were tucked on top of the rows horizontally, stacked in teetering piles on the floor or the side tables, or tucked beneath chairs. No two pieces of furniture were the same, and from a cursory glance of the titles on the bookshelves, Crowley couldn’t discern any clear system of organisation for the books, either. It was equal parts chaotic and homey, and so _perfectly_ Aziraphale. 

“Nice library you’ve got here,” Crowley commented. 

“Thank you, dear. Technically, this level is part of the shop as well,” he said, though he sniffed contemptuously at this statement as if the thought personally insulted him. “Although I don’t like to let go of my books. I don’t like to let go of my antiques either though, mind you.” 

“Isn’t that the point of a shop, though?” Crowley asked, teasingly. “To sell your wares?”

Aziraphale huffed, white-blonde eyebrows drawn together in offence. “I’d rather lose money than relinquish any of my items to some, some-- some _person_ who would toss it into a corner or place a beverage on top of a first edition, or god forbid, allow a grubby-fingered child near it!”

Crowley could barely keep himself contained at this sudden outburst, a wide grin breaking out on his face. Oh, this was _excellent_. 

“So what do you do when a person you deem _unworthy_ wants to buy something?” he asked, in a tone that he struggled to keep even as he placed a bet with himself about Aziraphale’s coming answer.

“I...” Aziraphale considered, before straightening up and puffing out his chest. “I kindly convince them to change their mind. And then I request politely that they leave the premises.”

Crowley couldn’t help but crack up knowing that his guess had been right, letting out a raucous laugh. “You kick them out!”

“I do not! I explain to them the work it takes to properly care for a vintage item, and they decide they’re not up to the challenge!”

“You _definitely_ kick them out,” Crowley wheezed, doubling over with laughter. “One hundred and ten percent. Without question. I bet you’ve snatched books right out of customers’ hands!”

Aziraphale flushed, crossing his arms in front of his chest in frustration. “I may...I may have removed books from the hands of unruly customers.”

Crowley had to brace his hands on his knees to collect himself, briefly dislodging his glasses with a slender finger to wipe a tear or two from his eyes. They slid down, revealing a flash of auburn eyelashes, but Crowley was nudging them back up the bridge of his nose before Aziraphale could catch anything else. 

“I’m getting my dinner,” Aziraphale huffed out. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable out here in the meantime.” He walked quickly away down the short hallway to the right and opened a discreetly placed door, which revealed another small staircase that led up to his private, modestly-sized flat. 

Crowley watched him go and finally straightened up, surprised to find that he was actually wondering if perhaps he had teased Aziraphale a bit too much. It was unusual for Crowley to feel embarrassed after teasing someone. 

Ah well, he thought to himself, ignoring the feeling. He carefully leaned his box against a chair and sank into one of the sofas to wait.

Aziraphale made his way back to the stove in his kitchen, where the kettle was whistling soundly and the leftover roast beef and barley stew he had started reheating was simmering happily in its saucepan. He clicked the stove off and grabbed a shallow serving bowl from the cupboard, proceeding to ladle in the stew from its pot. It smelled heavenly, the fragrant rosemary and garlic scent rising from the steam in waves. He really had to remember to thank Deirdre for giving him the recipe for it, as well as lending him her slow cooker. 

Aziraphale retrieved an old silver serving tray from on top of his fridge and placed the bowl of stew on it, giving it a quick twist from his pepper grinder and adding a small chunk of baguette on a plate to the side, along with a silver spoon. He found the black winged mug that he had tucked into the back of his teacup cabinet, and after a brief moment of deliberation, fished out his own white winged mug as well, placing both on the serving tray. He grabbed the bag of Dragon Well tea that Dr. Teng had gifted him, and shook a few grams into the bottom of each mug, filling them with hot water from the kettle before carefully starting his way back downstairs.

Aziraphale balanced the tray on his hip with one hand and dimmed the overhead lights via the switch near the flat door when he made it back down, leaving the den mostly illuminated by the soft glow of the various table lamps dotting the room. He’d been wondering if Crowley’s need for dark glasses was the result of some kind of sensitivity to light, and wanted to accommodate as best he could. 

“Don’t have to do that, angel,” drifted the other man’s voice from where he was slouched on one of the sofas on either side of the coffee table. “They were fine the way they were. ‘Preciate the thought, though.” He didn’t offer any explanation beyond that.

Aziraphale frowned, but turned the lights back up in acquiescence before joining Crowley, setting the serving tray on the table and sliding the black winged mug towards him before sitting down on the sofa opposite. 

Crowley cradled it with both hands, inhaling the soft, mellow scent of the Dragon Well. “S’this my designated mug, then?” he asked, shooting Aziraphale a wry smile. 

“It’s the only one I have that wouldn’t clash terribly with...well, you,” Aziraphale replied, gesturing vaguely at Crowley’s person but too distracted to come up with anything more eloquent. 

In the time it had taken for Aziraphale to gather his supper in the kitchen, Crowley had removed his coat and gloves, tossing them haphazardly onto a chair in the corner. He was wearing a crisp black dress shirt underneath, the top three buttons undone to reveal a column of pale throat. 

It was the material of the shirt that stopped Aziraphale in his tracks: the body, collar, and cuffs were a silky cotton, but the sleeves and portions above the chest line were cut in a sheer, striped jersey fabric, just translucent enough for the sloping shadows of Crowley’s sharp collarbones and lean arms to be visible, his right arm inked with an intricate, coiling tattoo of a serpent, expertly detailed with glimmering black scales and a segmented dark red belly. Aziraphale could follow the head of the snake, where it sat atop the back of Crowley’s right hand, all the way up around his arm and shoulder, its tail winding across his chest and flicking to an end right under his left clavicle. The way the sheer shirt showed off the tattoo was terribly purposeful, so much that Aziraphale had half a mind to ask Crowley if it was custom-made. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the man. Everything he wore looked luxe, and awfully expensive.

“See something you like, do you?” Crowley said with a smirk, throwing an arm across the back of the sofa and crossing one leg over the other, revealing a shiny, red-lacquered sole on the bottom of his boot. Louboutins. Because of course they were. The snakeskin patterning on the boots and the dramatic sheen of Crowley’s leather trousers both glistened in the low lamplight, equal parts high-class vogue and entirely ridiculous. 

Aziraphale jumped at the forwardness of the comment, realising he’d probably been ogling and immediately taking a sip from his own mug of tea. “Oh my, how rude of me!” he exclaimed, the tips of his ears briefly flushing with heat. “I don’t mean to stare.”

Crowley laughed, adjusting himself in his spot in a very accurate impression of a sentient pretzel, all long twisting limbs and a contentious-at-best understanding of normal human sitting habits. “I know I’m a bit of a flashy bastard, s’always a bit of harmless fun to scandalise people every now and then, what with my ink and my, quote, ‘immoral, unbecoming clothing.’” He grinned, showing off his sharp canines. 

Aziraphale frowned, swirling his tea. “I don’t see why someone would be so rude if one were minding their own business. Clothing is merely a form of expression. And I must say, you wear yours terribly well. The sheer is an excellent touch. And your tattoo is quite lovely.”

Crowley made a humming noise, not quite a word but obviously in satisfaction. “Thanks, angel. You’re not so bad yourself. I know a Timothy Everest suit when I see one.” He waved a hand at Aziraphale’s waistcoat and trousers.

Aziraphale stopped, hands halfway to his bowl of stew. “How in the world could you tell?” 

Crowley sat back, peering at the tea leaves in his mug. “I live in Mayfair, Aziraphale, have done for decades. Savile Row’s just down the block. Been in and out at old Tim’s as both customer and neighbour for years now.”

Well, that certainly confirmed one theory. Crowley was definitely well to do, if he lived in Mayfair and could speak so casually of being a repeat patron of Timothy Everest, one of Savile Row’s most famous tailors. Aziraphale found himself imagining what kind of suits Crowley would own. He couldn’t imagine Crowley wasting bespoke tailoring on a plain black three-piece, though he was positive the man owned one of those as well. Would he experiment with unusual fabrics? Probably definitely. Maybe bring in a hint of sheer, like he had with the shirt he was wearing tonight? Fairly likely. Could it be in the realm of possibility, he wondered, for him to diverge from black? Hm. Unknown, he decided.

“Well, I’m impressed,” Aziraphale said, looking down at himself as he fiddled with the hem of the light-grey linen, a bit of fading now evident at the edges from years of friction with his fingers. “This particular suit may be showing its age now, I’m afraid. I had it made in 1997.”

Crowley let out a low whistle. “And it’s still in that good a condition? Colour me impressed as well, angel.” He took a sip of his tea, raising his eyebrows in recognition. “That’s something I haven’t tasted in a long, long time. Top-grade Dragon Well, that is.”

Aziraphale had to stop himself again, after only his first bite of stew. Crowley was turning out to be an utter wellspring of knowledge, it seemed. “Sartorial expert _and_ tea connoisseur, are we?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual and just barely managing to stop himself from voicing the thought that followed the question out loud. _A man after my own heart._

“Tea bit’s a coincidence I think, ‘m typically more of a coffee bloke myself,” Crowley said sheepishly, taking another sip as Aziraphale began tucking into his stew. “Travelled to China a fair bit in my twenties for work, back when I was much more of a grunt than I am now. Couldn’t be trusted to handle the nice artworks on my own just yet, ended up ferrying a lot of smaller goods back and forth as gifts for our rich clients. Teas, jade bangles, y’know. The nicer ones would let me have a cuppa.” He omitted to mention that between making tea runs, he was by Lilith’s side, taking mental notes as she pilfered Ming Dynasty cloisonné vases and Qin-era bamboo slips. Crowley hadn’t been sent to Asia once since being promoted to the Ninth Circle, something that made him feel more forlorn the older he got. Though, he’d been asked a handful of times to steal Asian artefacts located in Western countries, which, in the end, he supposed was more practical for his purposes. 

“I can make you a coffee next time, if you prefer?” Aziraphale said automatically, his love of hosting guests outpacing his own brain as he panicked momentarily at the fact that he had verbally assumed there would be a next time. He tried not to let his misstep show though, and soldiered on, resigned to laying down the track as he went. “Black, I assume?”

“Why, however did you know?” Crowley replied, grinning. If he minded Aziraphale’s gaff at all, he didn’t show it. 

“An educated guess, if you will,” Aziraphale said, breaking a chunk off of his baguette and popping it into his mouth alongside a spoonful of stew. “All my years of studies have left me _terribly_ capable of accurately predicting the beverage preferences of my clients.”

Crowley chuckled. “I’ve been meaning to ask, ever since Warlock told me how you two met, how exactly is it that a bloke as educated as you, with degrees full to bursting and a Head Conservator line on your CV, end up running a quaint little antique shop like this? Shouldn’t you be out there, you know, putting on shows, leading seminars, paving the path for conservators generations to come?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, between bites of stew. “That’s rather a mundane story, I’m afraid. Not all that interesting.”

Crowley leaned forward in his seat. “I highly doubt that.”

“Really!” Aziraphale said earnestly, stirring his stew. “My grandfather used to own this shop. I often spent my free time as a boy here, watching him work, spending the night under his care when my parents were otherwise preoccupied, that kind of thing. When he passed on, he left the shop to me, and well, I couldn’t bear the thought of selling it or neglecting all these nice heirloom pieces.”

“You gave up a prestigious position at one of Britain’s most famous museums, to babysit a mish-mosh of other people’s unwanted antiques?” Crowley asked in disbelief.

It may have come off as a bit rude, but Aziraphale was starting to realise that that was just Crowley’s way; he never spoke with actual malicious intent. 

“That’s the general gist of it, I suppose.”

Crowley slumped back then, letting out an exhale and pursing his lips. “You really _are_ an angel.”

“Oh, pish posh.”

“No, really. Namesake be damned-- don’t think I didn’t notice the way to your workshop pointed East from the foyer. O Holy Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. There’s no way that’s just a coincidence. Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’ve got a flaming sword tucked away somewhere in here,” Crowley said, waggling his eyebrows at him. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in surprise. Unlike Gabriel and Michael, the mighty archangels who played a much more prominent role in most versions of Biblical canon, the angel Aziraphale typically held a much smaller part, one which had in fact been shortened even further in most modern translations, to the point where it was usually just a passing mention. The only version of the Bible where Aziraphale was explicitly described as a principality guarding the Eastern Gate of Eden and wielding a flaming sword was an obscure one-- a short-run printing edited by a pair of English scribes in the 17th century, all records of which had been lost except a few rare copies of the bible itself.

“That’s quite the trivia you’ve got there for a not-often-known Biblical figure, Crowley,” he said mildly. “Did you happen to look up my name on the Google?” 

“Sorry, did you just say _the Google?_ ” Crowley accused, a teasing smirk on his face. 

“Oh hush, you know what I mean!” Aziraphale exclaimed, flushing. He had half a mind to protest, but the look on Crowley’s face was clearly amused, not mocking. 

“Anyway no, I didn’t look you up on _the Google_ ,” Crowley continued, emphasising the phrase obnoxiously and pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “My old man was a Catholic reverend. Bit of a zealot in fact, very fire and brimstone. Growing up for me was something of a never-ending, all-inclusive trip to Bible camp. When I say we studied the Bible, I mean we studied _all_ of them. Old Dad made sure of that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, face falling slightly. “And do you-- do you still practise, then? Go to church?” he asked, although he was fairly sure what Crowley’s answer would be.

“Fuck no,” Crowley scoffed, true to Aziraphale’s prediction. “You’re clever, angel, I’m sure you would’ve guessed that. No need to stand on ceremony with me-- I know what I look like, how I come across. What people from those circles would think of me.”

“Well, it’s shameful and undeserved for certain, but I rather understand what you mean.” Aziraphale said, smiling sadly. “I was raised in a Catholic household as well, and name notwithstanding, I too have left the Church behind.”

That got Crowley’s attention, one well-formed eyebrow shooting up onto his forehead. “Can I ask why?”

“The Catholic Church doesn’t have a high opinion of people with certain, ah....proclivities, shall we say.” 

“Proclivities,” Crowley said flatly, lifting his mug to take the last sip of his tea.

“Let’s just say that after a certain point of my boyhood, anyone who meets me immediately assumes three things: that I’m English, that I’m intelligent, and that I’m gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.”

Crowley nearly spat out his mouthful of tea. He had to brace his arm on the coffee table.

“Two are true, one debatable. I’ll leave you to decide which is which,” Aziraphale said demurely, setting his now-empty bowl down.

“Cheeky,” Crowley grumbled, having miraculously managed to swallow without letting any tea escape into his windpipe. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale smile. _Oh, he did that on purpose, the bastard._

Aziraphale dabbed at his lips daintily with a cloth napkin, folding it back onto his tray alongside the empty bowl and plate when he was done. “Well, as lovely as this chat has been, I suppose we’d best get on to the work. You can just leave that here,” he said, gesturing to the empty mug Crowley was holding. “Unless you’d like a top up?”

“M’fine, thanks,” Crowley said. “Want to save the leaves?” 

“Save the leaves,” Aziraphale agreed, pleased that Crowley knew to ask. Dragon Well leaves were generally good for two or three more steeps after the first, and could even be eaten after the last. “I’ll come back and collect everything later, don’t mind it for now. If you’d like to bring along your artwork, we can head down to the workshop now.”

Crowley nodded, setting the mug onto the serving tray next to everything else and moving to retrieve his coat. He rummaged through the pocket for the perforated leather driving gloves he had been wearing earlier, pulling them on again before going to pick up the wooden box he had leaned against an armchair. 

“Why do you do that?” Aziraphale asked, curious. 

“Do what?” Crowley murmured in reply, distracted in his careful picking up of the box.

“Wear gloves when handling artwork. I can understand it when you’re handling a piece itself, but you do it when they’re packaged for transport as well. Not to mention, the gloves you wear are hardly archival, so why bother? You did it with the rosary bead box last time, and this time with just a shipping box. Surely no harm can come from carrying a wooden shipping box with your bare hands.”

Crowley frowned, a bit of an intense expression crossing his face. Aziraphale worried that perhaps he had made a misstep, emboldened by the surprisingly open conversation they’d seemed to have thus far, but now pried too far into Crowley’s shielded persona. 

“Mn- I suppose...” Crowley started, struggling to find the right words. “I s’pose it’s a mental way of keeping myself separate from the work? Separate from the client?” he lied. “Just a dumb habit, I guess.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale replied, smiling. “Quite the opposite. I can certainly understand a psychological reasoning such as that. We all have our quirks. Forget I said anything.” He made for the spiral staircase, the subject already out of his mind.

Crowley followed, trying to banish the last few seconds from his mind, as Aziraphale led them downstairs and back to the cluttered workshop. The steel work table and corresponding quilted mat in the corner were still clear and ready from last time, and Aziraphale flicked the work lamps on. He waited for Crowley to unpack his artwork, pulling a chair from nearby for him to sit on after and settling himself onto the tall stool in front of the table.

Crowley, keenly aware of Aziraphale watching him, placed the box on the tabletop and set aside the lid. He carefully lifted the styrofoam spacers out and removed them, revealing acid-free archival rag cover sheets sandwiched between two sheets of thick acrylic, a setup much like the original box he’d pilfered the artwork from at Sternberg Palace. He’d made sure to flatten the drawing out this way, with a box he’d prepared in advance, as soon as he’d made it back to his hotel room in Prague, to prevent any permanent curling in the paper from the maybe half an hour it had spent rolled up and slung across his back. It’d worked pretty well; he slowly undid the tape keeping the acrylic together and lifted away the cover sheets, revealing the flattened Mezzoli in all its glory. 

Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale had heard of Serafino Mezzoli the artist; he was obscure and virtually unknown, and it was unlikely. Even if by some miracle Aziraphale _had_ heard of him, Crowley could count on his fingers the number of people that knew this particular Mezzoli had been found, and he prayed to God or _Someone_ that that would be enough to keep his cover intact, because he was well and truly too far into what was probably a horrible mistake to back out now. It helped a little that what with the piece being a study, there was no artist signature to be seen.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward from his spot on the stool and peering over at the table. “What a lovely, quaint little piece.” The drawing was thankfully just as crisp as when Crowley had first seen it-- genteel, airy sweeps of charcoal, depicting grassy hills on a bright, clear summer day. It looked simple, but the rendering of light was expertly done, effortlessly atmospheric and seemingly realistic even when a closer look revealed stark, almost abstract strokes. 

“Mm,” Crowley grunted, shuffling the box to the side and sliding the charcoal drawing, now resting plainly on a single piece of acrylic, over top of the inlaid light box on the table.

“Paper may be harder to analyse outside a laboratory...” Aziraphale murmured, to himself more than anything, unfolding his half-moon reading glasses from the pocket of his waistcoat and slipping them onto his nose. “What’s the artist and time period?”

Crowley sighed internally in relief-- Aziraphale didn’t recognise the piece. He schooled his features into an impassive mask of professionalism as he pulled a completely made-up cover story out of thin air. “Unknown artist, ‘m afraid. Client happened upon it at an estate sale and they just took a shine to it, I suppose. Tried tracking the history, but it must’ve been passed around for centuries without proper records. Was advertised as 14th century Italian.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Your client went through all that fuss for a piece by an unknown artist?”

“I thought it was weird too,” Crowley said, lying through his teeth, “but they were adamant. Said they wanted to find out as much as they could, and follow the proper steps to take care of the thing. And also to see if the seller was bullshitting them on the age, I guess.” He shrugged, sinking down into the chair Aziraphale had set out for him in his trademark boneless sprawl and yanking off his gloves now that he was done touching the artwork. “Look, I just do what I’m told, I don’t ask questions.”

This seemed suspicious; to Aziraphale, Crowley very much seemed like the type of person to ask questions. He couldn’t presuppose though, considering this was only the second time he’d spoken to the man, so he let it go, chalking it up to the fact that he didn’t really know anything about the circumstances of Crowley’s job.

“Hmm, alright then. Not the best start for authentication, but...14th-century Italian, you said?” 

Crowley nodded in response. 

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose we can work with that. Let’s see...”

He flicked the switch for the lightbox, the smooth, plastic surface illuminating brightly in the otherwise dimly-lit room. The light filtered up through the drawing, revealing the fibrous texture of the thick paper and--

Aziraphale made a small noise of surprise. “Oh! How serendipitous.”

Crowley looked over from his chair, his view of the drawing obscured slightly due to the tall height of the table. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“I think you’ll like this. Take a look,” Aziraphale said, motioning with his hand for Crowley to come closer.

Crowley rose, sauntering over to stand next to Aziraphale in front of the lightbox. “Huh.” he said. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Viewed properly from above, Crowley could see it now-- a delicate, imprinted pattern of an angel sat slightly left-of-centre on the sheet of paper, invisible in plain light but illuminated just so by the brightness of the lightbox below. Below it was a smattering of letters surrounded by a decorative cartouche.

“A watermark,” Aziraphale said, extending a pinky finger and indicating the angel pattern as closely as possible without actually touching the fragile aged paper. “Its position on the page, and the relative crudeness of the pattern itself, certainly harkens to the time period you’re looking for. Although--” he grunted, standing up from his stool and walking over to a nearby desk, “we may have a good chance of narrowing it even further.” 

Crowley watched as the other man rummaged through the veritable mess of papers and other materials on the desk, until he managed to unearth what looked like a positively ancient Macbook.

“Jesus Aziraphale, what year is that laptop from? ‘05?”

“2002, actually,” Aziraphale said sheepishly. “But it connects to the Internet, which serves my purposes perfectly fine, I’ll have you know.”

“Would it be rude if I said I was surprised you own a laptop at all?” Crowley jabbed playfully, a sly smile crossing his face.

“Oh, _honestly_ ,” Aziraphale said, miffed. “I am _old-fashioned_ , not an _idiot_. I did manage my way around several state-of-the-art institutions, you know.” He opened the lid of the laptop, which gave a creak in protest. “If anything, I’m more surprised at you,” he fired back. “Since when have you ever asked permission before being rude to me, you wily demon.”

Crowley burst out laughing at the retort, throwing his head back in that way of his, and Aziraphale couldn’t resist breaking out into a smile.

“What can I say, _angel_ ,” he said, emphasizing the nickname. “Maybe your holy influence has me going soft.”

Aziraphale faltered internally, a blush threatening to creep up above his collar.

“Do you know, you’re a bit of a fiend,” he sniffed, as he slogged through the process of connecting to the shop wi-fi using the Macbook’s less-than-stellar trackpad. At least it was a trackpad, and not one of those godforsaken pointing joystick dots that used to be the norm when laptops first came around. Even Aziraphale had hated those infernal things, and was relieved when trackpads were invented.

Crowley spread his arms wide and grinned, a black, angular silhouette in the dim light of the workshop, sharp canines glinting. With the dark glasses obscuring his eyes, the overall effect was quite theatrical. “Wouldn’t be a _demon_ if I weren’t, now would I?” He seemed to relish his new nickname, bringing his hands back in and settling them on his hips in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Oh goodness, I’m going to regret calling you that, aren’t I,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, trying not to think too hard about the obvious duality of their respective nicknames, or the matching black and white winged mugs, or-- or-- ah, blast. What had he gotten himself into? Crowley merely stood off to the side, cackling to himself and paying Aziraphale no mind.

“Ah, here we are,” Aziraphale exclaimed, finally finding what he’d been looking for and angling his laptop screen slightly so Crowley could see the website he’d pulled up. “This is the Bernstein Consortium.”

“Bernstein, as in Leonard Bernstein?” Crowley questioned, eyebrows raised as he came closer to look at the screen.

Aziraphale chuckled. “No, dear boy-- look, they even address that misconception on their About page right here. Though, are you a fan of Leonard Bernstein’s work? I’m particularly fond of his 1977 rendition of Rachmaninoff’s 3rd Piano Concerto with the New York Philharmonic.”

Crowley hummed, eyes (presumably) still skimming over the site’s About page. “Rach 3’s nice. That Bernstein recording’s a little slow for my tastes. I like the 2004 Gergiev one with the Vienna Phil better. For Bernstein...hmm, I like his Mahler 6? Also with the Vienna Phil. Huh.”

“I bet you just like Mahler 6 because of the hammer pound,” Aziraphale accused.

“The _hammer pound_ , angel!” Crowley spun around on his heels, raising his arms above his head in imitation of a person heaving a sledgehammer. “The Bernstein video had the absolute _biggest_ bugger I’ve seen in any rendition. What can I say, I enjoy the simple things in life,” he said, grinning again.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, even as his heart grew fonder. Crowley’s reasons might’ve been childish, but he clearly knew what he was talking about. Music, like books, or food, or most things Aziraphale was passionate about in life, was a topic that he was ever so fond of, and it was rare to come across someone he could banter with about it at such a granular level. Crowley, he was consistently discovering, was a _delightful_ conversationalist. The two of them were excellent at going off on tangents it seemed, though that was probably bad news for the task at hand.

“ _Anyway_ , as I was saying,” he started again, reaching up to adjust his reading glasses. “The not-Leonard-Bernstein Consortium is a programme based in Austria that catalogues the history and features of paper. They have an entire catalogue of historical paper watermarks,” he said, as he clicked through to the online portal. “And if we’re lucky…” he muttered, scrubbing through the filters, “we might just be able to find our little angel friend here.”

“An entire catalogue of paper watermarks,” Crowley mused, crossing his arms. “Imagine that.”

“It’s quite comprehensive,” Aziraphale said, nodding. “Good thing, too-- I’ve restored many antique books in my day, but this kind of ageing analysis was generally left to specialised paper conservators. I mentioned it last time, but it’s very likely that one of these days you’ll bring me something that I won’t be able to authenticate with the meagre resources I have here,” he admitted, self-consciously.

Crowley frowned ever-so-slightly and went uncharacteristically quiet, arms still crossed in front of his chest. His earlier grin vanished, replaced by an expressionless mask that was impossible to read. Aziraphale couldn’t pinpoint what exactly he had said that made Crowley suddenly clam up this way-- he just knew that the silence that now fell between them was terribly uncomfortable. He found himself wishing they could go back to talking about Mahler instead. Alas.

At least the silence was short-lived, as Aziraphale found what he was looking for just then.

“Here it is!” he exclaimed, pointing to the screen. “Anthropomorphic figure, angel-- and, yes, look there-- place of use: Fabriano, Italy. Dated 1338.”

Crowley snapped back to attention, a modicum of expression returning to his face. “Fabriano, like the watercolour paper?”

“The very same,” Aziraphale said, beaming. “Their mills first started in the town of Fabriano in the year 1276-- and quickly became the veritable centre of paper manufacturing in Europe at the time. Do you know, Fabriano was the first European papermaker to fully mechanise their fulling mills, or _gualchiera_? And with water power, no less!” His eyes twinkled with excitement. “In fact, the watermark method we see here-- imprints made with shaped wire presses-- was invented in that very town, not half a century before this sheet of paper was produced.”

“And what about the letters?” Crowley inquired.

“Ah. That, I suspect--” Aziraphale said, reaching over to scroll down the page on his laptop, “--is a name. Yes-- ‘Cressce M’, the name of the papermaker whose hand produced this sheet. The date of this name matches the time period, as well.”

“Wow,” Crowley said, slouching back into his chair. “All that, from a few wire imprints.”

“Well, this piece of artwork is _remarkably_ well-preserved,” Aziraphale said, looking at the drawing again in wonder. “Fabriano papers are renowned for their longevity, but I’ve never seen such a pristine specimen! The crispness of the charcoal-- indicative of animal gelatin sizing, revolutionary for its time, really; the double-sided surface-- a result of immediate couching onto a felt to prevent imprints of the wire mould on the back side; the whiteness that’s persisted all these centuries-- a clear indication of the low residual metal content and purity of the water used in the mills, and-- oh. Oh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” Aziraphale said guiltily, having only just noticed. “I-- I do apologise.”

“S’alright,” came Crowley’s simple reply. He paused. “...I like it,” he mumbled.

“Sorry?” Aziraphale said, not quite catching what the other man said.

“I said I like it,” Crowley repeated, shrugging nonchalantly. “I kinda like listening to you talk about stuff.”

“Really?” Aziraphale said, surprised. “I-- most people zone out, or change the subject, or…” _Or tell me to stop, sometimes rudely_ , he thought to himself, pointedly not thinking about all the times Gabriel had done just that.

“Good thing I’m not most people, then,” Crowley said, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I dunno. S’nice to listen to someone get so passionate about something.”

Aziraphale wanted to say, _there’s plenty more where that came from_ , but he had to restrain himself. No matter what he said, surely at some point Crowley would get annoyed with his impassioned rambling, too. Everyone always did. And he didn’t want to risk that with Crowley, who was cool and aloof and someone he would very much like to get to know better.

“Oh, well...thank you for bearing with me, then,” Aziraphale settled for instead. “In any case…” he hesitated, glancing at the drawing on the table. “In any case, without any other information, I can tell you this: this artwork is indeed from the 14th century, and the paper is undoubtedly of Italian origin. Whether the artist themself is Italian is a less exact conclusion, but Western Europe would be a relatively safe bet considering travel limitations at the time. Would that be enough for your client?”

“More than,” Crowley said. “We’ve got the name of the bloody papermaker, even. If that isn’t a job well done on your part, I don’t know what is.”

And just like that, there was no longer any...professional reason, for the two of them to be holed up in Aziraphale’s workshop after-hours on a Saturday night. This left Aziraphale with a rather wistful feeling in his chest. 

“Well...I suppose that’s a wrap, then. Shall I help you pack the piece back up again, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“I can do it,” Crowley muttered, reaching over to the cluttered side table where he’d tossed his pair of gloves earlier. He slipped them back on, and made quick work of setting the aged drawing back between its cover pages and protective acrylic sheets, securing it all with tape and styrofoam and sturdy wooden panels until the shipping box re-emerged. Crowley pulled the coat he’d thrown over the back of the chair on again too, fastening the collar all the way up to his throat and tucking the box underneath his arm, looking exactly as he had at the beginning of the night, as if nothing had transpired in between. 

“I don’t suppose I can tempt you into sending me an invoice for tonight,” Crowley said. “Second time and all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. It was his turn to cross his arms as he looked at Crowley with all the air of a disappointed parent.

“It’s not _ridiculous_ \-- it’s payment for professional services,” Crowley argued, exasperated. “Last time I let it slide because it was a favour for Warlock, this time--”

“This time, it’s a favour for you.” Aziraphale interrupted. “Consider it, ah...a consolation prize.”

“A consolation prize?” Crowley said, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

“For the, quote, _world’s shittiest hangover_ ,” he said, eyes twinkling.

Crowley gaped at him, momentarily thrown off by the swear, which sounded strange and foreign in Aziraphale’s gentle voice. Finally, he trained his eyes skyward again and groaned, for the nth time that night.

“I won’t win this, will I,” he lamented.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” Aziraphale responded pleasantly. “Best to accept defeat gracefully, I should think.”

Crowley grumbled a series of agitated, non-word noises under his breath, before finally conceding defeat. “Fine,” he hissed. “Have it your way.” 

Aziraphale merely beamed, and put on his most innocent, shining smile. “Shall I walk you out, then?”

Crowley muttered a reluctant agreement, and Aziraphale led them back out of the workshop, past the foyer, and towards the front door, making sure to double-check that the other man had everything before leaving for the night.

Crowley turned towards the doorway, hand halfway to the knob, before pausing. “Actually, before I go,” he began, “d’you mind if I have a quick smoke out front? I can nip ‘cross the street if you’re not keen on the smell.”

“Oh, not at all!” Aziraphale replied. “Out front is fine, as long as the door’s shut to keep the smoke away from the antiques. As a matter of fact...” he hesitated briefly. They’d been delayed a little by Aziraphale’s dinner and conversations here and there, but the hour wasn’t terribly late yet, only a little past nine. He found himself mulling over a slightly bold idea. “Would you mind if I...joined you?”

Crowley looked back at him in surprise. “I...sure. Have to admit, angel, you don’t look the type. But the more the merrier.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s not a frequent habit to be sure, but I’ve been known to indulge from time to time. Let’s see, I need to pop back upstairs for the relevant accoutrements, so why don’t you go on ahead, dear boy. I’ll be out in just a few.”

Aziraphale bustled his way back up the spiral staircase to his flat, leaving Crowley to make his way outside. He unlocked the passenger door of his Bentley, slotting the now-inspected, re-boxed Mezzoli safely into the footwell beneath the seat where he could keep an eye on it during his drive home later. He locked the door again and turned back towards the shop, choosing a section of faded brick wall to the left of the front door and large, gold-lettered display window, leaning against it casually as he drew his engraved silver lighter and a cigarette from the leather case he always carried in his back pocket. He had just flicked the lighter closed again and was taking his first slow inhale of the spice-infused smoke when the shop bell tinkled again and Aziraphale came out, carefully making sure the door fully closed behind him. 

Aziraphale shivered and pulled his newly-donned cream overcoat tighter around him as he came to stand next to Crowley against the wall, a puff of breath escaping his lips in the chilled night air. He held in his hands an antique long-stemmed pipe carved from mahogany and a small metal tin decorated with colourful painted filigree that presumably held loose-leaf tobacco.

“You know what, I take it back, you look _exactly_ the type to smoke something as ridiculous as that,” Crowley said, incredulous.

Aziraphale gave him an absolutely affronted look, though there was no true malice in it. “Oh _hush_ , you foul fiend.”

Crowley merely responded by grinning roguishly and tipping into a curtsy. He waved the hand holding his cigarette out in a flourish, the glowing tip tracing a swirl of light in the dark.

Aziraphale tutted at the dramatic display, opening his tin and starting to transfer pinches of leaves from it to the end of his pipe, grinding them between his fingers before tamping it all down into the bowl. When he was satisfied, he snapped the tin shut and slid it into his coat pocket, pipe mouthpiece held gingerly between his lips. 

“Allow me, _sir_ ,” Crowley said in an exaggerated, Received Pronunciation affectation of a haughty butler, flipping his lighter back open and on with a smooth flick of the wrist, and touching the flame to the end of Aziraphale’s pipe. The leaves sparked to life and Aziraphale drew in a breath, letting out a satisfied sigh with the first exhale of smoke.

“Hold on,” Crowley said abruptly once the smoke reached his nostrils. “I’m smelling...is that...sorry, is that _pot?_ ”

Aziraphale looked straight at him, pipe held daintily in hand.

“This is cannabis, yes. Though if you must know, it’s quite a tame strain.”

Crowley looked back at him, amazed, at a loss as to what to say. His own cigarette hung loosely between his fingers, momentarily forgotten.

Aziraphale sighed. “My mind,” he started, by way of explanation. “It turns too quickly sometimes.”

“Too quickly?” Crowley questioned, eyebrows rising slightly.

“It can become terribly hard to think clearly,” Aziraphale continued. “One copes in what ways one can. This, I’ve come to discover over the years ” he said, gesturing to the pipe in his hand, “is a method that helps my mind slow down a bit.”

Crowley huffed out a laugh-- a low, slightly-bitter bark of a thing, and slumped back against the brick wall, bringing his cigarette back up to his lips. “What you’re describing is anxiety, angel.”

Aziraphale said nothing, but Crowley could practically hear the man’s heart rate tick up a notch next to him as he looked away. 

“Hey,” Crowley continued quickly, turning in his direction, one shoulder now leaning against the wall. “M’not judging. God knows pot’s far less poisonous than tobacco and alcohol, anyway. Anxiety’s shit, and if a little weed takes the edge off? Small price to pay, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale looked back at him, the relief in his body palpable. He had been a bit apprehensive at the idea of digging out his little stash of marijuana considering recreational cannabis use was still illegal in Britain (not that he was at any great risk of getting into trouble, given he was, auspiciously, a harmless-looking caucasian man and it was a weekend night in downtown Soho), but it seemed that he had been right in his prediction that Crowley wasn’t one to care about such things.

What he hadn’t expected, was the subtle nod at the difficulties of managing anxiety. Aziraphale had pegged Crowley as carefree, a fast, loose soul who approached life with both hands on the reins. His words seemed brash, his movements sure and confident in a way Aziraphale could never imagine himself being. But maybe they were more similar than he had initially expected, Aziraphale thought to himself as he watched the other man resume his casual slouch against the wall as his cigarette burned down slowly between slim, leather-clad fingers, the glow of the embers sending orange flickers of light across the deep, dark lenses of his ubiquitous glasses.

Crowley noticed him watching, but didn’t turn his body back in Aziraphale’s direction. He instead put on a small smile of acknowledgement, gentle and reassuring in contrast to his usual teasing grins. Aziraphale smiled back and leaned against the wall as well, placing his pipe back between his lips. They stood there together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each indulging in their respective vices and content to not speak or look at anything in particular.

Aziraphale broke the silence first, with a question that had just surfaced in the space of his light high, his body already feeling more relaxed and pliant than before.

“That Bentley there...is she yours?”

Crowley’s smile returned. His cigarette had burned out by this point, and he flicked it down onto the sidewalk, crushing it with a well-crafted boot heel.

“That she is,” he said, fondness plain in his voice. “My granddad bought her brand new back in 1933, and left her to me when he passed on, though I wasn’t allowed to actually claim it until years later, when I could legally drive. Only 1,177 ever made, and who knows how many’re left. She’s my pride and joy,” he said, stepping up to the spotless car and running a reverent hand over the handsome black-and-dark-grey painted hood. The vehicle was pristine, with a low-to-the-ground chassis and elegant, graceful lines throughout, from the chromed round headlights to the wide running boards that sloped gently into curved fenders atop the tyres.

“She’s beautiful,” Aziraphale said, getting closer to peer into the boxy cabin, where he could see immaculately-kept, line-quilted black leather seats and the wooden box containing the charcoal drawing he’d inspected nestled in the footwell of the passenger side.

“Take you for a ride in it someday, if y’like,” Crowley mumbled, almost too quietly for Aziraphale to hear.

“Would you really?” Aziraphale exclaimed, with rather more gusto than he’d normally have thought himself brave enough for; perhaps the cannabis had lowered his restraint a bit as well. “Oh, that would be _delightful._ ” He had to admit, as much as he’d appreciated the strong, clean lines of the vintage Bonneville motorbike that Crowley had parked in the very same kerbside spot the Bentley was now occupying, the desire to ride the bike had never crossed his mind. Much too dangerous. The Bentley, however...a ride in such a beautifully-maintained antique vehicle sounded _wonderful._

Crowley startled slightly at the excited response, taking a moment to recompose his usual deliberately-detached self.

“Tell you what,” he said, an almost imperceptible hesitation colouring his voice, “my schedule’s not bad next month. What d’you say to a spot of lunch, let’s say...Saturday the 16th, noon sharp? You pick the place, I’ll pick you up.” He rapped a knuckle lightly on the hood of the Bentley in indication.

Aziraphale was momentarily stunned at the invitation and failed to reply right away, mouth slightly open as he processed the words.

Crowley cleared his throat and quickly changed tack. “Or we don’t have to have lunch, I can just give you a ride--”

“No, I’d like that.”

“What?”

“I’d like to have lunch. The 16th at noon sounds perfectly fine. I’ll call to confirm, morning of?”

“Nn, yeah, alright,” Crowley said. “Sounds...good.” He shuffled his feet as an awkward silence fell between the two of them.

“Well...guess I better be off then. Won’t keep you,” he said finally, pulling his keys from his coat pocket.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said as Crowley unlocked the door. “Good night, Crowley. Mind how you go.”

“Good night, Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly, starting to duck under the line of the roof to enter the car but stopping halfway down. 

“You’re wrong, by the way,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“Before. When you said that two were true, and one debatable. You were wrong.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, a little confused.

“All three are true,” Crowley said, before escaping under the roofline and folding himself into the driver’s seat before Aziraphale could formulate a response. He watched as Crowley turned the engine over and eased the Bentley out of its spot, before zooming off down the street in a red trail of glowing tail lights.

Aziraphale retreated into the safety of his shop, locking the front door behind him and collapsing with his back against it in a heaving sigh. He tilted his head skyward and closed his eyes, taking in a deep inhale. 

Goodness gracious.

This was certainly a troubling development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale smoking weed is one of my absolute favorite character bits in this entire story :'D
> 
> The [Bernstein Consortium / Memory of Paper historical watermark database](https://www.memoryofpaper.eu/BernsteinPortal/appl_start.disp#). If you search for ref. number 170, you can find the angel watermark from 1338 Fabriano that I referenced. 'Cressce M' is also a real papermaker from Fabriano whose name started appearing in watermarks starting in 1310.
> 
> I'm an ensemble violinist, so excuse me geeking out over classical recordings. Pieces in this chapter:  
> [Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TK4klHLrFdw&t=4s) \- Gergiev / Bronfman / Wiener Philharmoniker  
> [Mahler Symphony No. 6](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rypHeVr_X7c) \- Bernstein / Wiener Philharmoniker (hammer pound at 1:03:49)  
> Some [history](https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/classical/news/why-huge-mallet-takes-centre-stage-gustav-mahler-s-symphony-no-6-a6725856.html) on the hammer pound, and also just a [bunch of satisfying gifs](https://www.classicfm.com/composers/mahler/guides/hammer-gifs-symphony-6/) of different percussionists swinging it down
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a particularly memorable day in the summer of 2008, in which Crowley was in fact the victim, not the perpetrator, of an instance of pickpocketing.

_**July 2008** \- Nine Elms, London, UK_

Crowley was sitting alone at an iron patio table outside a Costa with a full cup of black coffee next to him. He was pretending to aimlessly flip through a newspaper, his eyes actually more focussed on scanning the surrounding passerby from behind his tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses. He might’ve underestimated how warm it was going to be when he got ready earlier that morning-- it was sunny and slightly shy of twenty-three degrees, and he was starting to swelter a little in the long, black twill jacket he had on over an otherwise simple crew-neck tee and jeans. He would bear it though, for the aesthetic. 

He was waiting to meet Hastur, of all things. There’d been a crucial document missing from the assignment briefing packet he’d gotten from Bee the day before-- an architectural blueprint of the auction house storage facility he was assigned to hit in a few weeks time. Without the blueprint, Crowley was blocked. He’d shot Bee a text in the morning saying he intended on dropping by headquarters later in the day to scoop it up, but Bee had responded with a meet-in-the-middle proposal: Hastur was running an errand in Nine Elms at around the same time, and she could just have him drop the document off to him somewhere in the area. And, well. It saved him some trouble, but he had to see Hastur’s face, so really, who lost there?

He’d been waiting for almost twenty minutes past their agreed-upon time now, having ordered a drink after the ten-minute mark out of sheer boredom, and while Hastur often had more zeal than sense, being late wasn’t a trait that kept one employed at Prince. Crowley checked his watch, and blew an impatient raspberry.

Another few minutes of idle sitting earned him a buzz from his jacket pocket, where his work phone sat. He swiped it open to an update from Bee.

Lord Beelzebub (Imp )  
  
Big-time debtor Hastur was tailing decided to make a run for it, the stupid git Hastur’s got his hands full pinning the bloke down, so unfortunately he’s got to beg off making the drop Come to HQ later and I’ll get you a copy like we originally planned  
  


Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Well, there went his morning. He had woken up early to get this done, too. The back of his neck was getting a little sweaty; his hair was longer than it’d been in years, the soft copper waves brushing his shoulders at the bottom and pulled into a little stub of a bun at the top. Maybe he would consider cutting it again.

Crowley stood up and stretched his limbs. He felt the hem of his jacket rustle and shift with the motion and brought a hand up to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“I’d put that back if I were you,” he said, casually brushing a speck of dust off of his lapel as he straightened his jacket. 

A figure, small and gangly and at the edge of his periphery but not quite out of sight, froze. Crowley held a hand out at it, palm up, posture casual and relaxed. A few seconds passed.

Finally, Crowley’s slim leather wallet was deposited into his waiting hand and the figure came fully into view accompanied with a reluctant sigh-- it was a teenage boy, pale and thin with dull sea-green eyes and long, unkempt dark hair that hung in front of his face. He looked like he needed to eat more (a rare observation coming from someone as skinny as Crowley), his narrow frame swimming in a large black Metallica tee and a pair of ripped dark wash jeans that looked like they’d once fit well, but had now loosened up considerably. The boy wore a pair of ratty red high-top Converses and very small but decidedly edgy black gauges in his earlobes; there were smudges of eyeliner at the corners of his eyes and his nails were painted with chipped black polish. He looked terrible. It reminded Crowley an awful lot of himself at that age.

“Sorry,” the boy said guiltily, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. His accent was interesting-- American, for the most part, but Crowley could detect just the slightest English inflection underneath it. 

“Nope,” Crowley replied, popping the ‘p’.

“What?” the boy responded, confused.

Crowley opened his wallet for a quick once-over to make sure all his things-- ID, cards, a few pound notes, an old photo-- were still there, then flipped it closed with a _thwack_ and slid it smoothly into his pocket. His back pocket instead of his jacket this time, in case the boy was considering a second attempt.

“You’re not sorry,” Crowley said cheerfully. “You’re embarrassed that you got caught. Quite right, too,” he added, flashing the kid a grin. “Botching a simple wallet lift? _Awfully_ embarrassing, that is.”

“Wha--” The boy reeled, going in a very amusing sequence of flustered to angry and finally insolent. At the end of it all, he looked like he was a hair trigger away from making a run for it, so Crowley decided to pause the laugh he was having to take pity on him.

“Relax, kid. I’m not going to report you or anything. In fact,” Crowley said nonchalantly, moving a few steps over and pulling out the empty chair opposite where he’d just been sitting, “Why don’t you have a seat?”

The boy looked at the chair suspiciously, as if it would come alive and bite him if he wasn’t careful. He gave Crowley the same look. Crowley wordlessly slid his untouched cup of coffee across the table at him, the little stopper on the plastic lid yet to be removed.

The boy sat down cautiously and wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee, giving it the same suspicious look. 

“S’not poisoned,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “I was going to drink that before you came along, y’know.”

The boy took the stopper out of the lid, then sniffed at the drink before taking a long, gulping sip. He stuck his tongue out afterwards.

“Tastes like burnt napkins,” he said.

Crowley laughed as he sprawled back into his own seat. “Yeah, it’s pretty shit.” Despite this, it didn’t escape his notice that the boy went back for seconds, tilting his head back for a long drink.

“My dad says coffee’s an ‘acquired taste for adults’, and that I just don’t get it,” he said, grimacing at the bitterness of the over-roasted beans, flavour unobstructed by any cream or sugar.

“Your dad sounds like a twat.”

The boy’s eyes went as round and wide as saucers, the classic look of someone who secretly agreed but was shocked to hear the sentiment actually sounded out loud, not to mention by an adult.

“What?” Crowley shrugged, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. “Kids’re usually smarter than most adults want to admit. Just ‘cause someone’s of age, doesn’t mean they automatically know better. Humans’re too complicated for it to be that simple, I think.”

“You say that as if you’re not human,” the boy said, wrinkling his nose at him.

“Maybe I’m not,” Crowley prompted, flashing another grin. “Maybe I’m just a figment of your imagination. Maybe you’re dreaming.” 

The boy rolled his eyes. “Right, as if I’d dream up an old weirdo like you just to scold me. I’m not _that_ much of a masochist.” _Big words for a kid_ , Crowley thought to himself. Book-smart, then.

“Well, Not-A-Masochist, got a name?”

The boy paused. “...Warlock,” he said, eventually.

“Crowley,” Crowley replied, very pointedly not offering Warlock something as inane as a handshake.

“Crowley?” Warlock said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s weird. Is that a first name or a last name?”

Crowley completely ignored the question and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its two back legs. “Like you’re one to talk, _Warlock_.”

Warlock pursed his lips and made a conceding shrug. They sat there for a few minutes, Warlock gulping down the rest of his coffee and Crowley observing him from behind the concealing tint of his sunglasses. When Warlock was finished, he stood up.

“Thanks for not reporting me, I guess,” he mumbled, before turning to toss the cup into a nearby bin. “And for the coffee.”

A terrible idea popped into Crowley’s head then.

“Hey,” he said, before Warlock could escape. “Got something to show you.”

\------------------------------

Crowley tossed the wallet to Warlock, who caught it, eyes wide with surprise.

“ _That’s_ how it’s done,” Crowley said triumphantly, a little too pleased with himself for successfully nicking some random stranger’s wallet. As far as skills on his resume went, it was the lowest rung of the ladder, really. 

“Wow,” Warlock said, staring at the wallet with awe. “You didn’t even do a distraction or anything.”

That was the thing. Pickpocketing was, simply put, below Crowley’s pay grade. He had no need for the bump-and-apologise, the annoying petitioner, or the ‘thief who would definitely be noticed but by the time the victim wanted to do something about it he would be behind a closed door on the tube’ trick. For Crowley, lifting a wallet or a bag or a watch was a simple sleight-of-hand, a ghost of a touch before he melted into a crowd, and the victim would be none the wiser. It was a natural talent that he’d discovered about himself in his early teens, further honed by years of practise thereafter.

“So I can keep this?” Warlock asked, excitement obvious in his voice as he opened the wallet and spotted a healthy number of pound notes inside. 

“What? No,” Crowley said, irritated. “Give me that.” He snatched it back.

“Hey!” Warlock protested. Crowley merely stalked off with the wallet, his long legs taking him back towards the tall, stately gentleman he’d stolen it from, who was standing next to the covered waiting area of a nearby bus stop and speaking into his mobile, completely unaware that anything had transpired. From where Warlock was standing under the awning of a shop on the street corner, all he saw was Crowley walk past the man, their respective jackets _maybe_ making the briefest contact with each other, before Crowley turned around and headed back in his direction. Less than thirty seconds later, the bus arrived, and when the doors opened, the man pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out his bus pass in preparation to board. 

“If you were just going to give it back, why did you bother taking it in the first place?!” Warlock complained when Crowley returned. “Just to show off?”

Maybe a _little_ part of it was so he could show off, but Crowley would never admit that. He just gave Warlock a stern look. “I _showed_ you how to do it properly so that if you one day _have_ to to make ends meet, you can do it without getting the coppers called on your sorry arse. And let’s be clear, I’m talking ‘if I don’t find some money, I’m not getting any food or water today’ type of situation here.”

Warlock bristled. “Look at me. I’m skinny as hell, I haven’t showered in days, and my sneakers have fucking holes in them. I needed that money!” 

“No, you don’t.”

“And how would you know?” Warlock shot back.

“Tell me,” Crowley segued, leaning casually against the red brick wall beneath the awning they were standing under. “What’s the son of American Cultural Attaché Thaddeus Dowling doing picking pockets on the street? Last I checked, living in the U.S. Embassy generally gives a kid pretty solid access to food and a working shower.”

Warlock blanched. “How do you know that?”

Crowley scoffed. “For a smart kid, you’re pretty dense, you know that? How many other boys do you think are named _Warlock_ , for Pete’s sake? And running around picking pockets without even leaving Nine Elms, with the embassy only a few streets away? S’a pretty stupid move.”

“I never got caught before _you_ came along,” Warlock said, his voice rising in heat and volume. “You think my life is so easy just because my dad works at the embassy? You don’t know anything about me! I got enough shit from my parents growing up, I don’t need you lording it over me, too. Who even _are_ you?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Crowley spat under his breath, grabbing Warlock by the collar of his baggy shirt and corralling him from in front of the shop into a nearby alleyway, the narrow cobblestone-paved street offering them a little more privacy than the pedestrian-filled public walkway. He made a show of shoving the teenager into a section of faded brick wall next to a dumpster; it would’ve looked awfully violent to an observer, but Crowley made sure he didn’t use enough force to actually hurt the boy or god forbid, hit his head against the wall. 

“You want to know who I am?” Crowley hissed with his face menacingly close to Warlock’s. “I’m _you_. Twenty-five years ago I was exactly where you are now, nicking people’s wallets for my next meal because it was more reliable than depending on the non-existent notion of _compassion_ from strangers, only I had no _choice_ , because unlike yours, my folks were not only not well-to-do, they were both _dead_. So this, me _lording_ it over you? Is me trying to _understand_ why exactly you’re out here, Warlock Dowling. And maybe, just maybe, I can help you get a slightly _smarter_ plan through that thick skull of yours with the resources you have and I didn’t. So that oh, I don’t know, you don’t spend the rest of your teens in a youth detention centre, amass an irreparable record, and grow up unable to be anything but a career criminal.”

Crowley let out a deep breath at the end of his outburst, shoulders falling with the exhale and his grip on the collar of the teen’s shirt loosening considerably. Warlock deflated, shrinking into himself against the wall, and Crowley let go of him, turning tail to pace the width of the little alleyway as his anger rolled off of him in palpable waves.

Crowley was furious at himself. He’d just essentially blown his cover to some kid he’d met not more than an hour ago, for absolutely no logical reason. This was dangerous, this was ludicrous, this was exactly why people in his line of work generally avoided all kinds of interpersonal relationships. He knew deep down that he was simultaneously too abrasive and soft at heart, not to mention he had a very inconvenient tender spot for children, a fatal combination for the notion of work-life balance as far as his ridiculous career was concerned. 

“You know what,” Crowley started, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. You’re right-- it’s none of my fucking business. I’m gone-- just know that if you repeat anything I said to you or tell anyone about me, I _will_ know, and you _will_ regret it. Have a nice life,” he sneered, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning to leave. He tried, sincerely, to make his threat sound genuine, knowing in the back of his mind that when it came down to it, it was empty. He wouldn’t hurt an innocent teenager, no matter how much of a little prick the kid was. 

He’d almost made it back to the main street, when--

“My dad threatened to kick me out,” Warlock said from his spot against the wall, voice small. 

Crowley stopped in his tracks.

“He didn’t actually _do_ it, I guess,” Warlock continued. “Not before I ran away.”

 _Ah_ , Crowley thought to himself glumly. The illusion of control. A classic manoeuvre he was all too familiar with.

Suddenly, it was all spilling out of Warlock, the dam barricaded deep in the depths of his heart bursting in a single spectacular, splintering shower.

“I always got good grades, always did my chores,” he said. “Took all his stupid etiquette classes and shook hands with every rich, influential asshole I was told to.

I never got in the way of his career or whatever, but I didn’t _look_ right for him. Too gangly. Too different. I wanted to play heavy metal guitar instead of the piano. Draw horror comics or go digging for fossils in the garden instead of going on hunting trips with Dad. Grow my hair out. Wear skinny jeans and fuck around with makeup instead of going on diplomatic tours and sucking up to lobbyists for the rest of my life. 

Mom was okay with it all I think, but it wasn’t...enough. She never found the balls to stand up to Dad, and honestly, I don’t even think I can blame her. He’s a fucking steamroller. No one in that house escaped from it. And even though I’ve never seen him hit Mom or any of the staff, I think all of them were sort of thinking it, in the back of their minds. Like we were always only one step away from something like that.”

Warlock took a deep breath, scraping the soles of his worn-down Converses against the rough cobblestone ground and folding his arms protectively in front of his torso. He wasn’t short, really, standing maybe five-foot-nine with probably still some room to grow, but in his dark, baggy tee with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, he looked very small indeed.

“I...I felt so _stifled_ in that house,” he continued. “Kept up with my grades and chores but started lashing out. Public school was shit, anyway. Most of the other kids made fun of my accent and my slang or whatever, so. I did stupid stuff like get my ears pierced without telling my parents. Fucked off on the weekends with the other bored, restless outcasts from Eton. We’d steal shit from the mall. Smoke joints and drink and come home not bothering to try and hide any of it. And all Dad cared about was _how it would look_ in the press, how it would _negatively affect his career_.” Warlock said the last few words with a scathing venom in his voice. “He didn’t care about _me_. It made me so mad that I only got worse. I’m not even sure if I’m gay really, but one time I brought home a boyfriend just to piss him off. And well, that went about as well as you’d expect.”

Crowley’s heart sunk down to his stomach, and his eyes fluttered shut behind his glasses.

“I guess the last straw was when we had our career week or whatever last term. Had this big fair thing where speakers came to talk to us about stuff to study in uni. I’d never really thought about it, but I’ve always liked drawing and reading cool stories about art and history stuff, and some of the speakers talked about that. It actually sounded pretty rad, so that night at dinner I told my folks that I was interested in going to art school to become a comic artist or maybe studying something like history or archaeology.”

Crowley winced. This wasn’t a scenario he’d necessarily experienced himself, but from the few snippets of Thaddeus Dowling he’d seen on the telly in the past, he didn’t have high hopes for a happy ending. 

“Anyway, Dad flipped his shit. Apparently he already had this whole master plan of sending me back to America to go to Harvard Law School or study poli sci at Georgetown or some shit, and started yelling at me like it was my fault he literally never fucking mentioned any of that before, like, ever. Said there was no money in art, that I would never be talented enough to make it anyway, and no way would he let his only kid waste four years of tuition on a ‘useless degree’ when he’d _so generously_ put all the pieces in place for me to follow in his footsteps.” Warlock emphasised ‘so generously’ in a biting, mocking tone with a sour expression to match. 

Ah, the classic demeaning, controlling father figure. That, Crowley could also relate to. 

“He dumped all my art stuff the day after. Came home from school and it was all just stuffed in the trash. Took all my favorite books and comics, too. Said he wouldn’t pay for anything that would lead to me majoring in something idiotic. 

I was so _pissed_ \-- pissed that he’d thrown out drawings that I spent hours on, pissed that he never told me anything about his stupid plan, and-- and just pissed that he was never there, that he didn’t actually _know_ me, and worst of all, he didn’t even seem interested in finding out. He just wanted a Thaddeus Dowling Jr. We got into this stupid fucking screaming match, and at the end, he said that if I couldn’t even be grateful enough to be the son he wanted, then what was the point of even keeping me around? 

And of course, Mom was there the whole time, but she did fuck all to stop it. Just...stood there and watched. Scared. Like I said, can’t even blame her.”

Warlock slid his body down the wall until he was in a sitting position, arms hanging limp across his knees. He buried his face in his arms, further obscured by his long, dark hair. 

“So I dunno,” he said, voice muffled. “I guess I figured, what was the point of sticking around?”

Warlock fell silent for what was probably only a few seconds, but felt to Crowley like forever. And then he heard it, behind him-- soft sobs, quiet only by virtue of the fact that the kid was obviously trying to hold them back. 

“I-I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I don’t even know you,” Warlock mumbled through the tears, voice cracking a little. “You should just go. Fuck off and leave me alone. I gotta find some more money before sundown, anyway.”

Crowley finally turned around to face Warlock. He didn’t say a word. He simply strode over, grabbed Warlock, and pulled him into a hug (though if you asked about it later, he’d vehemently deny it), wrapping both arms tightly around the teenager, who made a surprised yelp but eventually melted into it, too exhausted to resist. 

“I told you,” Crowley said, with Warlock’s head resting on his shoulder, long brown hair tangling with bright red, “I’m you. And you’re me. But that’ll change, if I can help it.” He was playing the role of guardian now, but beneath the surface, Crowley was seething with rage, a rage that was old and biblical and that he knew he needed to resist acting upon. Somehow, some way, this is how it was: Warlock Dowling needed him, and against all better instinct, Crowley couldn’t bring himself to turn away. 

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Crowley waiting patiently as Warlock’s tears petered out into wet sniffles and eventually just his haggard, red-eyed face remained. Crowley let go then, and fished a packet of tissues out of his pocket, tossing them at the teenager. 

“Where’ve you been sleeping since you left?” Crowley asked.

Warlock looked away, embarrassed. “Local homeless shelter,” he mumbled under his breath.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? Not a friend’s house or something?”

“I haven’t really told anyone else about...this. Stuff.”

Crowley sighed. He was disappointed, but he had to admit it was exactly what teenage him would have done, so he couldn’t tell Warlock off unless he wanted to be a gigantic hypocrite. 

“Right. Let’s go, then,” he said, exhaling heavily and straightening his jacket.

“What d’you mean?” Warlock replied, confused. “Where? What’re we doing?”

“ _We’re_ not doing anything. I’m taking _you_ to Nando’s, because if you don’t eat a proper meal in the next hour, you’re going to get sucked into your shirt like an asteroid in a black hole. And then you’re going to stay at my place tonight, until we can figure something better out."

Warlock’s eyes widened. “What? I can’t just--”

“You can,” Crowley interrupted, “and you will. Though just so you know, if you even think about trying to lift any of my things or my wallet again, there’ll be hell to pay. You won’t get a second warning.” This time, Crowley wasn’t bluffing. 

A proper flash of fear flickered across Warlock’s eyes as he considered this, eventually looking up at Crowley and nodding in agreement. “Okay. I promise-- and um, thanks,” he said, a little self-consciously.

“Shut up,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes and extending his hand with a flourish. “Anthony J. Crowley. Professional thief.”

“Warlock Dowling,” came the reply, along with a very refined handshake that screamed of hours of probably-insufferable schooling on upper-class decorum. “Unruly teen.” 

They grinned at each other.

And well, that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: 'Public school' in Britain refers to private schools where you pay tuition. They're 'public' in the sense that kids can attend regardless of home school district, etc.
> 
> Crowley's 'parenting' style was a tricky one; I don't think it's harsh enough to constitute abuse, but it certainly wouldn't work for every kind of kid. His past in this AU is a lot more complex and interwoven with other characters than Aziraphale's, so the exposition's a bit Crowley-centric. But I promise the present-day plotline is very much a dual act <3
> 
> As usual, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was yet another memorable day, in the spring of 2011, where Crowley saved someone _else_ from a instance of pickpocketing. This causes much more trouble for him than he anticipates.

_**April 2011** \- Monte Carlo, Monaco_

Crowley adjusted the bow tie around his neck, straightening the ends. It was woven from a black silk that complemented his polished dress shoes and matching cummerbund. He had on an all-black dinner suit: a severe pleated shirt accented by silver bar cufflinks at the wrists, a pair of sharply-creased trousers and an expertly-tailored jacket with notched lapels cut from a smooth, dark satin. At the edge of one lapel was the barest hint of colour: a thin strip of satin a red so dark it was almost black, mirroring the simple burgundy pocket square tucked into his breast pocket. 

It was a nice suit. Not pomp enough to be Crowley’s favourite, but the occasion called for a bit of subtlety. He was currently in the main lobby of the Casino de Monte-Carlo in Monaco, waiting to rendezvous with an informant regarding the whereabouts of several pieces of artwork on Prince’s upcoming docket. It was the first in a weeklong series of what were really just glorified meetings, no daring heist or clever subterfuge to be had. He had been disappointed when Bee handed down the assignment, a fan of the more hands-on parts of his job as he was, but he really couldn’t complain-- it was a beautifully temperate spring day, he was in Monte Carlo with a great per diem and a good deal of free time in his schedule, and no one from the office was around to bug him. He had rented a car-- a vintage black Aston Martin DB5-- out of his own pocket, for the sheer chance to zoom along the coast and indulge in his silly guilty pleasure of pretending to be James Bond for a few days. All in all, a good hand to be dealt. 

Crowley’s work phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, flicking it open to see the encrypted message therein.

Unknown  
  
Blackjack, table 45. Can’t be all business and no play, hm?  
  


Crowley scoffed to himself. Apparently their informant thought it apropos to test his worthiness before handing over the information. Well. If he could do anything, it was deliver. He stalked off towards the gaming room, hands shoved in his pockets and very much looking forward to getting this over with. 

Finding the table was easy-- he was expecting to plop down, play a few quick rounds, get the information, and get out of there in short order, with plenty of time left in the afternoon for a long drive, a light dinner, and then maybe a good poolside bask at sunset followed by some cheesy action film to cap off the night. When Crowley saw who was sitting at the table though, he started to think that things might not go his way after all.

“The Serpent of Eden, as I live and breathe,” the man at the table said, flashing him a wide smile that was all teeth and failed to reach his eyes. He extended a hand, dark and slim and adorned with silver rings.

“Dr. Sable. What a pleasant surprise,” Crowley replied, smiling back lazily as he slipped easily into the careless, charming persona he used for work, which basically amounted to an exaggerated, extra-smarmy version of his real personality, minus the anxiety. 

Dr. Raven Sable was something akin to an odd mirror of Crowley; he was thin as a rail, ebony-skinned with handsome, sharp features, large dark eyes, and short, natural hair in a neat fade. He had an expression that seemed a permanent combination of mischievous and flirtatious, and like Crowley, had a penchant for dressing all in black. He was also sporting an all-black suit, the shirt of which was pinstriped with delicate silver threads, though unlike Crowley’s bow tie and cummerbund, Sable had opted for a slim tie and a sleek silk waistcoat that accentuated his narrow frame. There was a small brooch pinned to his lapel, of a set of glistening silver scales. 

He was flanked by a pair of standing bodyguards, menacing-looking but nondescript in their plain black suits and sunglasses. Crowley could tell each of them was armed with a discreetly holstered handgun under the arm, judging by their stances and the way their jackets draped on their sturdy forms. Problematic, if anything went wrong.

Sable was a restaurant and diet food mogul, well-known in the circles of nouvelle cuisine and haute couture. He ran a chain of upscale, ultra-exclusive gastropubs around Europe, that specialised in what Sable called “food as art.” Crowley had met him once before, seven or eight years ago when he was still in the Seventh Circle, at a work dinner that he’d accompanied Bee to for a purpose very similar to the meeting he was having now. He remembered the dinner pretty clearly purely because of how shitty he’d found it-- it’d been at one of Sable’s own restaurants, where each of them had been served a string bean, a single pea, and a horridly thin sliver of chicken breast, aesthetically arranged on a square china plate with an artfully piped swirl of unidentifiable red sauce. Even Crowley, who’d been told by more people than he could count that he ate like a bird, and probably had the smallest appetite of anyone he knew, had left the dinner craving takeout from the local chippy. Bee had been so alarmed upon hearing him admit this that she drove them to one straight from the restaurant, scarfing down a large order herself.

In addition to his ludicrous yet somehow booming restaurant endeavours, Sable also authored diet books and programmes, the general gist of which could be boiled down to a very simple mantra of “don’t eat, and you’ll lose weight”. This proved very lucrative in the haute couture scene, and a lot of Europe’s top models, as well as lots of wealthy women who deigned to imitate those models, took the bait. It was through that avenue that Raven Sable first dipped his toes into the parallel industry of narcotics, particularly heroin. Sable didn’t seem to have any kind of moral compass or conscience really, was whip-smart to boot, and settled nicely into a side avenue of cooking up all sorts of designer drug cocktails for the same vain upper-class client pool he had from his food (or rather, non-food) empire, using opioids as a base. He would do house calls, seducing men and women alike with his charismatic manner before injecting them, hooking them up to an IV, or cutting them thin, careful lines of fine white powder.

The widely accepted story among Prince and other black-market art dealers was that during this time, a friend of Sable’s had offhandedly mentioned that they were looking for a particular painting that had been purchased by an anonymous buyer at auction a few years back, and were willing to do...ahem, anything, to obtain the piece for themselves. It didn’t mean anything to Sable at the time, until one day he’d been doing a house call for a wealthy socialite in Windsor, and the painting in question was just...hanging there, on the wall of the very room they were sitting in. Sable had no qualms about taking it, only that doing so during their session would be much too obvious in the way of evidence, and instead just snapped a photo with his phone and emailed the address to his friend, along with a window of time in which the socialite would be much too occupied floating on cloud nine to notice anyone breaking into the house and nicking it. He needed a favour from that friend, anyhow. 

And so began Raven Sable’s side- _side_ -gig of scouring his client’s properties for all sorts of valuable items: James Dean’s onscreen costume pieces, rare and one-of-a-kind antique cars, lost or stolen Renaissance art-- you name it. His information came at a high price, but if anything rang true about Raven Sable, it was this: he never lied, and he never cheated (except, of course, to the police). If you could pay for it, you could damn well be sure you’d get it, as long as you held up your own end of the bargain. If you didn’t, well-- Raven Sable had no conscience when it came to removing the proverbial fat either, as it were. 

Prince had established a pretty good relationship with Sable in the past decade or so (i.e. no one at Prince had been, ahem, taken care of, on his orders, as of yet). Seeing him sitting at the blackjack table suddenly made it clear to Crowley why Bee had sent him, a seemingly over-qualified Ninth Circle operative, to personally receive the information (though he was still pretty incensed that she’d done it without telling him it would be Sable, that pain-in-the-arse. She _knew_ how he felt about him. That was an angry conversation for another day). Coming out of a meeting in Sable’s good graces was a tricky one, and although the man was never malicious without reason, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Crowley had the advantage of both having met the man before and being, er, sort of...Sable’s _type_. 

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Sable said, raking his eyes up and down Crowley’s body with a leer that frankly made him a little uncomfortable. “I daresay the title of Serpent suits you far more than Astaroth.”

“You think?” Crowley replied casually. “I was quite fond of Astaroth, actually. Had a nice ring to it.” Strictly speaking, this statement wasn’t exactly true-- not entirely, anyway. In demonology, Astaroth was a Duke of Hell known for tempting humans by means of sloth, lies, and self-doubt. Astaroth also had the power to give humans control over serpents, which Crowley admittedly liked, but being a Duke of Hell meant that at one point he had shared a symbolic rank with Hastur, which left a disgusting taste in his mouth every time he thought about it. 

Astaroth was fine, but the real reason Crowley was more attached to the title compared to all the others he’d gone through during the course of his career was because in some texts, the male demon Astaroth actually originated from the _female_ goddess Ashtoreth. In some 17th century interpretations, particularly one voiced by John Milton in _Paradise Lost_ , the two were even one and the same, a genderfluid deity that could be worshipped as either sex, which Crowley found infinitely more interesting. 

Phonetically, he much preferred the way Ashtoreth rolled off his tongue, and had secretly referred to himself by that name during his run in the Seventh Circle. Thematically, Ashtoreth the goddess was an astral deity linked to the evening star, and her name was derived from roots meaning ‘sparkle’ and ‘splendor’, and Crowley, astronomy aficionado as he was, had always found that right up his alley. Asmodeus, who back then was known as Valefar, and Bee were the only two people on Earth who’d known about his preference, though they’d kept it mum around their cohorts at his request. 

“I’ll always remember you as Astaroth,” Sable said, a menacing twinkle in his eye. “You were awfully young and hungry then, with that beautiful long hair and those full lashes. It’s a shame I can’t even see those now,” he said, waving a hand at Crowley’s resolutely shielded eyes. At the time, he’d favoured his tortoiseshell wayfarers, which lacked the coverage he liked so much about his current Valentino pair.

“Well, what can you do?” Crowley grinned conversationally, as if the problem were entirely out of his hands. “What d’you say? Should we get this show on the road?” 

“I thought you’d never ask, love,” Sable said, sliding a stack of euro notes out of his jacket pocket and counting €1,000 of bills onto the felt. Crowley raised an eyebrow. It was a conspicuously large amount of money, but he’d foreseen a situation like this as soon as Bee told him he’d be having this meeting at the Casino de Monte Carlo. The obscenely rich did tend to like showing off, after all. Crowley reached into his own breast pocket, pulling out his own set of bills in an equal amount, and fanning them across the felt. The dealer, a sharply-uniformed but otherwise innocuous-looking man with olive skin and neatly combed back hair, who up until this moment had been standing off to the side waiting patiently for whatever vernacular catechism his two mysterious players were putting each other through to come to an end, swept away the bills and slid each of them four ten-stacks of green chips. Crowley took one, and casually weaved it between his fingers.

“Just the two of you then, sirs?” the dealer asked. Crowley looked at Sable, who nodded, and then turned back to the dealer.

“I reckon so, y--” 

“‘Scuse us, do you mind if we join your table?” a voice interrupted.

All three of them looked up. There was a young man, a boy, really-- who had suddenly materialised next to them. He was maybe 5’10” or 5’11”, not quite as tall as Crowley but a bit stockier; he had a radiant, youthful face, strikingly blue eyes, and curly dirty blond hair a tad too unkempt to be entirely formal but combed back behind his ears in a valiant attempt. He was wearing a simple black suit that fit well, but to the trained eye, only did so as a result of the expertise of an unknown third party. Crowley was willing to bet a not insignificant amount of money that the boy wouldn’t have the first clue as to how to tie a bow tie himself.

Next to the boy was a girl, a little shorter than her companion, with soft, dark skin and long, natural-textured hair done up in an elegant but very practical-looking bun atop her head. She had on a bright red dinner jacket over cropped black pants, and a shiny pair of low-heeled patent leather oxfords. A bold application of red eyeliner sharpened her features, making her look mature and a little severe. It was feminine-- maybe not in the classical sense, but in an ‘I’ll crush you in a boardroom’ sort of way.

Crowley supposed it was _possible_ that the two of them were eighteen. Warlock had just turned eighteen, and in his opinion looked about the same age or even a tad younger than the two teenagers standing in front of him now. But Warlock had historically been a scrawny child, not to mention he’d suffered a significant period of malnutrition that had probably stunted his growth a little. 

It seemed equally as possible that these two _weren’t_ yet eighteen. Which would make them naive, mental, crafty, dense or any possible combination of the four. If they weren’t of age, they weren’t trying _particularly_ hard to hide it. It all smelled like trouble to Crowley.

He chose to speak preemptively. “This is a private game between my friend and I, m’afraid. I’d run along--”

“No,” Sable interrupted, with an amused shadow of a smile on his face. “Why not? The more the merrier.” Crowley looked at him, surprised, though he took care to only visibly respond with a nonchalant shrug.

“Wicked,” the boy said, the two of them proceeding to slide into seats across the table from Crowley. They each slid a few hundred euros towards the dealer, receiving similar, but smaller piles of green chips in return compared to Sable and Crowley’s.

The dealer took a moment to load six decks of cards into his shuffling machine. In the meantime, the boy stared intently at Sable’s two bodyguards. “Do you guys have guns?” he asked curiously. The guards looked at each other. Sable stifled a chuckle. The boy shrugged, turning away to play with his chips once he realised he wasn’t going to get an answer.

The girl, in turn, turned to Crowley. “Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” she asked, with absolutely no regard for decorum.

“I’m a spy,” Crowley replied casually, with an ease that would’ve fooled any lie detector. 

“You’re lying,” she accused.

“How ever could you tell,” Crowley responded drily. She leaned back in her chair and huffed, frustrated at her failure to get anything out of him.

By that point, the dealer had loaded the shuffled cards into the shoe and cleared his throat to signal that he was ready to start. The four of them turned to attention; Crowley, the boy, and the girl each placed one chip into their betting circles, the €25 house minimum. Sable put in four. Crowley frowned internally at this, as the dealer began doling out hands. 

What followed was unquestionably the most bizarre session of blackjack Crowley had ever experienced. He’d come into the game prepared to do some psychological back-and-forth with Sable, expecting him to be a card sharp from the obscene amount of money he’d put down for chips, but that apparently wasn’t the case. Sable’s plays were erratic-- he hit when it was obviously a bad idea to do so, twice he doubled down way too early, and he got his hand signals mixed up on several occasions. His bets were even harder to predict, but even losing a round didn’t seem to dissuade him from upping the ante in the next.

The two teens were another wrench in the mix; the girl was for the most part playing fairly solid basic strategy, but from time to time she would get animated and instinctually shout out her plays, startling the dealer, who wasn’t allowed to respond to vocal directions and had to remind her to make hand signals instead. Other times she would lose the thread of her strategy and make moves that were completely out of left field and made no sense to Crowley. The boy on the other hand looked to be concentrating so hard that he’d get a migraine any minute. At one point, Crowley was almost certain he was counting cards, given the consistent delay in the rhythm of the game when the boy’s turn came around. It was painfully obvious, but Sable was oblivious and the dealer apparently didn’t care, and for a second it looked like the boy’s strategy would work, until he made the mistake of placing a large insurance bet on the dealer’s Ace, only to be foiled spectacularly by the hole card being a ten.

Considering the fact that the three of them barely seemed to know the rules of blackjack and certainly none of them were _good_ at it, the rounds still managed to move at a rather breakneck pace. Crowley knew that both letting Sable win and mercilessly outplaying him would be seen as a slight against him, and was therefore trying to temper his own strategies accordingly, but the utter unpredictability of it all was throwing his game off. By the end of the twentieth or so round, he and the dealer had formed some sort of mutually empathetic bond over both feeling like unwilling passengers in a clown car built by Salvador Dali, and had started shooting each other furtive, tired looks when nobody was looking. One of the bodyguards had taken to dragging a hand down her face in secondhand embarrassment. 

Despite everything, Sable didn’t seem to want to stop. And despite his badly informed plays, he was the only one of the group to get Blackjacks purely by luck, which were paid out handsomely as a result of his inordinately large bets. As the game progressed, his luck pushed him to the lead in profits, to Crowley’s utter chagrin. Bee was _not_ going to be happy about his company expense reports on this one, but the circumstances left him no choice but to match Sable’s calibre of bets, lest the man think that Crowley, and therefore Prince, was too cheap to play at his level. 

It took over an hour before Crowley was blessedly rescued from the torturous ordeal by the arrival of two more possibly-underage-but-you-couldn’t-know-for-sure people, a pair of boys wearing suits that were rather ill-fitting in comparison to the one worn by the curly-haired blond at the table. They were both lean and brown-haired, but gave off positively opposite vibes: one sported a face full of freckles and seemed to have permanent smudges of dirt or something else grimy on his fingers and the bridge of his nose, and was slouching while slurping away at some sort of syrupy drink. The other was stuffy and buttoned up, the shortest of the four, standing ramrod straight and wearing a pair of thick, square-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down his nose.

“You guys done yet?” the grimy one said. “We were gonna go check out the roulette tables.”

“Oh yeah!” the curly-haired boy exclaimed, in the middle of sifting through his now rainbow-coloured pile of chips. “That was the last thing on our list.”

“Yeah, we could call it,” the girl piped up, stacking her own chips into neat little rows.

The boy turned to Sable and Crowley, and thrust out a hand. “That was fun,” he said. “Thanks for the games!”

Sable shook the boy’s hand. “Likewise,” he said, laughing. “It was my first time playing blackjack, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.” Behind him, Crowley facepalmed, which elicited the softest of snickers from the two bodyguards. Sable thankfully didn’t notice-- he merely had the dealer consolidate his chips, eventually pouring them into a small, purple velvet bag fastened with a silver drawstring. The bag clattered with contents previously collected as he slipped it back into his jacket pocket. 

The teens turned away to talk amongst themselves for a moment as Sable focussed his attention back on Crowley. 

“Well, that certainly wasn’t how I expected this meeting to go,” he started, amused. 

“No,” Crowley replied. This at least was true. 

“However one-on-one I’d originally intended for our conversation to be,” the man continued, checking his watch, “I’m afraid I have another matter to attend to back at Le Méridien in an hour. We’ll have to cut it short here.” He gestured to one of the bodyguards, who reached inside his jacket and produced a sealed yellow clasp envelope, which Sable handed to Crowley.

“I think you’ll find everything that Miss Prince expects of our transaction therein,” he said. “On my word, though you’re free to check if you like.”

Crowley shook his head. “Come now, Doctor, we’ve been in business together much too long for that. To do so would be an insult, don’t you think?” He smiled at the other man, flashing a sharp canine. 

He knew he had made the right play when Sable made that predatory grin of his right back at him, his hooded eyes beetle-dark and glistening. “Quite. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, _Serpent_.” He held out a hand. “Please send my regards to the elder Ms. Prince as well.”

“And you,” Crowley replied easily, shaking it. “I’ll be sure to pass your message along. I’m at the Hermitage all week myself if anything comes up. You know how to get in touch.”

Sable waved a hand at his bodyguards so they could take their leave, and Crowley was about to breathe a huge sigh of relief, when the sudden dull _thunk_ of bodies colliding called his attention again.

“Oh, bollocks, sorry--” the curly-haired boy said, reaching out to stabilise Sable, who he’d accidentally run into.

“Don’t worry about it, young man,” Sable said, rubbing his shoulder but appearing otherwise unconcerned. “Happens to the best of us.” 

The boy rearranged the lapels of Sable’s jacket. “Nah, I should’ve been paying more attention,” he said apologetically, “us heading in the same direction and all.” His fingers brushed along the hem of the other man’s jacket as he straightened it out.

Crowley stiffened. He narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses, secure in the knowledge that no one could see him looking.

“Well, hope you have a nice rest of your day, sir,” the boy said, smiling and waving before he and his group of friends started to walk off towards the roulette tables.

Sable shot one last glance at Crowley before also taking his leave, his bodyguards trailing him as they headed towards the exit.

Crowley waited a beat as the two parties split. He turned to the blackjack dealer, giving him an apologetic clap on the shoulder and tucking a ten euro note into his breast pocket. “Sorry, mate,” he breathed out. “Devil’s luck, that.” The dealer merely gave a slight inclination of his head in acknowledgement, and left Crowley be. Smart bloke. 

Crowley left the table. He had a smattering of chips in his pocket that he needed to recoup the cash value of, but never mind that for the moment-- there was another issue pressing at the forefront of his mind. He stalked his way over to the double staircase at one end of the room, taking the steps up to the central landing, resting his elbows atop the banister to get a bird’s-eye view of the entire room, and carefully scanning the rows of tables.

The group of four teenagers was easy to find, sticking out from the rest of the older, more uniformly-moving crowd like sore thumbs. Crowley watched them from behind his sunglasses as they crossed the expanse of the room, talking and laughing and clearly headed for the cage. The curly-haired boy was being especially jubilant, leading the pack and throwing his hands around in a clear display of bravado. That all but confirmed it for Crowley.

He sighed, and made his way back down the stairs, quickening his pace as he headed towards the cage. He drew near it in short order, and settled himself into a dark alcove behind a pillar lining the path between the group of teens and the cage, the black of his suit blending in with the deep shadows cast by the overhead chandeliers. 

There, he waited, closing his eyes and focussing in on the sounds of the four teenagers’ voices amidst the low chatter of the rest of the room as they got closer and closer to the cage. 

Just as they were about to pass in front of him and step up to the counter, Crowley stepped into their path, switching seamlessly into the persona he’d chosen for the act.

“Kids! Oh my god, kids, _what_ did your mother and I tell you about wandering off? You know you’re not old enough to be in here!” A nearby employee stopped in his tracks, curious, and Crowley waved him away, an embarrassed smile on his face. “I’m so sorry. Little hellions, they are. My wife and I just wanted one day to ourselves and they had to cause trouble!” The teens just stared at him, confused. Before they could say anything, and the girl, spitfire as she apparently was, was definitely about to, Crowley swept them all from the room with his long arms, continuing to make his fake parental fuss until he managed to corral them into a nearby empty conference room, closing and locking the door behind them.

“What the _hell_ was that all about?!” the girl shouted indignantly, finally getting her chance to protest. “You’re not our dad. You’re-- you’re the bloke from the blackjack table! What do you want with us?” She looked half ready to run at him, fists pummelling, and he didn’t doubt that she would do it with conviction, too.

Crowley rolled his eyes hard, having dropped the parent act the second his body had crossed the threshold of the doorway. “Listen, you little _shits_ ,” he hissed. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but If you don’t hand back those chips you nicked from our nice friend at the blackjack table back there, you’re going to have a _whole lot_ more to worry about than your _parents._ ”

One of the boys, the one with the youthful good looks and unruly blond curls, stepped forward. He was obviously the leader of the little outfit, reaching a hand out to the side and shuffling the other two boys behind him in a protective stance. “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Really,” Crowley said, sarcastically. “So you wouldn’t recognise this, then?” “He reached into his pocket and pulled out the purple velvet bag, its contents clattering softly as he dangled it in front of them.

Leader Boy baulked for the briefest of moments before tamping his expression down to one of control once more. Crowley noticed the boy’s fingers twitch briefly in the direction of his breast pocket, from where Crowley had pinched the bag a few minutes ago during their scuffle in front of the cage. The other two boys (in his head, Crowley had named them Not-Yet-An-Accountant and Literal Sticky Fingers) didn’t have as good a handle over themselves it seemed, both unable to banish the look of shock on their faces. And Spitfire Girl, well-- her face just remained resolutely angry. 

“That’s ours,” Leader Boy said darkly, voice lowering in an obvious attempt to be intimidating. And truth be told, to a normal person, it _would_ be intimidating. The young man was, after all, tall, fit, and sturdy-looking, with charismatic eyes that hopped effortlessly from cheerful to dangerous, and an air about him that suggested he was used to getting anything he wanted. 

Unfortunately for him, however, Crowley was not a normal person.

“It’s not,” Crowley replied, “and don’t waste your breath trying to lie to me.”

All four teenagers fell silent. Crowley held the bag up again and shook it, the plastic chips inside clattering against each other. The bag was small, the contents compact enough to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. 

“Do you lot realise how risky it was to steal from the man you did? For a scant handful of chips like this?"

“They’re high value,” Leader Boy said, angry. “All together they’re worth almost twenty grand.”

Crowley scoffed. “Twenty grand is chump change considering the target you all just painted on your own backs. The man you just stole from, his name is Raven Sable, and I’m warning you-- he does _not_ take lightly to being wronged. The fact that you tried means you didn’t do your homework, and in this business, a mistake like that’s fatal. You should be grateful that _I’m_ the one who caught you.”

Leader Boy and Spitfire Girl opened their mouths simultaneously and both started in on the beginnings of whatever protest they had in mind, only to awkwardly cut each other off. It would’ve been funny, if Crowley wasn’t, at the moment, more concerned with getting the bag of chips out of the room and back into Sable’s possession before the man realised it was gone. He checked his watch. A little over twenty minutes had passed since their blackjack game had concluded.

Hell. He needed to get out of here, now. 

“Aaaanyway…” he said, rolling his eyes again. “Good talk.” He tossed the little velvet bag up into the air with one hand and snatched it again on the way down as he turned to leave the room. 

Now. ‘Combatant’ was not a word that Crowley would describe himself with professionally. In his opinion, if he needed to fight someone in the course of his work, that meant something had gone terribly wrong. His preferred method of slipping in and out of places, unseen and unnoticed, was a matter of great pride to him and he generally tried not to break away from that pattern.

Setting this aside, however, the very nature of who he was and the circles he ran in meant that he would be an absolute fool to not at least know _how_ to fight when those types of situations inevitably came up. He knew his way around bar brawls and back alley knife fights and (Crowley didn’t want to judge, but it was usually) men with hair-trigger tempers; if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have survived spending his early teens on the streets, and he certainly wouldn’t have clawed himself to where he was now. 

He felt the shift in the air before he even heard the shuffle of heavy footsteps bounding in his direction, and whirled around to see Leader Boy’s fist swinging towards him. Crowley reacted on pure reflex, snaking his left forearm inside the wide arc of the teenager’s punch and deflecting the blow outwards with lightning speed. He turned his wrist ever-so-slightly and grabbed hold of the errant arm, and in the same moment placed his right foot squarely at the base of the boy’s instep. Then, keeping his legs firmly planted, Crowley twisted himself to the side and yanked. 

Leader Boy’s body jerked counterclockwise, tripping over Crowley’s planted foot and losing all semblance of balance. Crowley guided him through the spin, and when the teen’s back was to him, Crowley grabbed his other wrist and pushed forward, pinning both of the boy’s arms against the small of his back and slamming him cheek-first hard against the conference room wall. The whole scuffle had only taken a couple of seconds.

The three other teens cried out in alarm as the boy struggled to break free, but even Spitfire Girl was hesitant to rush over and help after seeing their leader so clearly outmatched.

“Do _not_ test me,” Crowley snarled into Leader Boy’s ear. “Capische?”

The boy wiggled for a few more seconds, went still, and then finally gave a resigned nod. 

Crowley released his hold then, and stepped away. The boy straightened up and rubbed his arms, a wounded look on his face, before rejoining his group of friends. 

Crowley shook the velvet bag one last time, fired off a Cub Scout salute, and slunk out of the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Le Méridien in an hour, Sable had said. 

He had thirty minutes left. 

\------------------------------

“Adam, you alright?” Wensley asked quietly, reaching over to give his friend a comforting pat on the arm.

Adam practically growled in frustration, shaking off the touch. 

“Who the hell _was_ that guy?!” Pepper fumed beside him, eyebrows still knit in fury. 

“Wanker,” Adam muttered under his breath. He rubbed his face gingerly, the spot where it had been slammed against the wall still red and stinging, though not severe enough to leave any permanent marks or bruises.

“What’re we going to do now?” Brian questioned, fingers fidgeting. “We still have a few days left in the city, I’m sure we could score some more chips--”

“No,” Adam interrupted. “ I have a better idea.” His friends looked at him, waiting. 

“Forget the chips,” he said, starting to pace back and forth around the room as he gathered his thoughts. “That-- that bloke, Sunglasses Bloke-- we should tail him.”

Wensley and Brian looked at each other. “I...I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Adam,” Wensley said timidly. “He seems a little...I dunno, out of our league? I mean, after what he did to you--”

“He just caught me off guard is all!” Adam cried, not noticing his friends flinch at the outburst. “Look, we-- look.” He sat down on the conference room table and faced Brian, Wensley, and Pepper. “Remember when we first got together in uni to do all this? We said we were going to make a fortune so we could _change the world_. And we decided to do it, er, outside the system, because making money the normal way is convoluted and slow and it’s not like any sodding billionaire follows the rules anyway!” He shifted in his seat, eyes brightening as he got more and more fired up. “So maybe Sunglasses is right. We can’t change the world with twenty grand. We have to find some bigger fish to fry. And well, if he caught us, he clearly knows something we don’t-- shouldn’t we try to find out what? Maybe _he’s_ the big fish we’ve been looking for all this time!”

“But Adam, how--” Pepper began.

“We can do it,” Adam interrupted. “Maybe he got one over us last time, but this time we’ll have the element of surprise. I overheard him telling the other guy that he was staying at the Hermitage. Brian, you could hack the hotel database-- find his room, copy a key-- we could go up there, poke around, see what else he’s got hidden up his sleeve. Maybe he’s got a chip stash of his own, or even better, maybe he’s MI5 or something and has a laptop with all sorts of insider information on all the fat cats that’ll be in town this week.”

Pepper narrowed her eyes. “He said he was a spy when I asked him why he was wearing sunnies inside...wouldn’t that be a stupid thing to say if it were true?”

“A classic double bluff’s what it is,” Adam said confidently. “Come on. Aren’t you guys even a _little_ curious about what he could know?”

Brian stroked his chin, deep in thought. “I guess...I guess hacking the hotel database wouldn’t be too hard…and if he _is_ MI5, when else would I get a chance to get a crack at that…?”

“See?” Adam said excitedly. “We can do it! Come on, let’s go!” One by one, the members of the Them’s postures changed, moving from doubtful to sort-of-hesitant to, finally, cautiously optimistic, and Adam, eager as ever to put one of his new plans into motion, shuffled them out of the room in the direction of Hôtel Hermitage to find a place where Brian could set up his laptop and get to work. 

Unbeknownst to Adam, in his breast pocket, precisely where the stolen velvet chip bag had been resting happily not thirty minutes prior, was a tiny, circular metallic device, not more than a few millimetres in diameter and practically weightless. It’d been sitting there patiently ever since the pocket’s previous occupant left, and had listened to and relayed every word spoken in its vicinity since.

On the other end of the line, through the perspective of a discreetly hidden earpiece he’d been wearing ever since he stepped out of his hotel room that morning, Crowley put his head into his hands, and groaned. 

What a day this was turning out to be. 

\------------------------------

“There,” Brian said, sliding Adam the card across the table. “One top-floor Diamond Suite keycard for,” he squinted at the poor-quality ID photo on his laptop screen, “James Crawley, though I reckon that’s a cover. Checked his background, way too vanilla.” 

“Swanky,” Pepper said with a look of disgust on her face as Adam slid the key into his inside breast pocket. “Well, we know he’s minted. Or at least works for someone who is.” 

“Probably works for someone really important,” Wensley piped up. “I don’t think big shots usually get down in the nitty gritty like he did. Plus, he was alone. No security detail when he was at the table or anything.”

“Makes sense,” Adam said, stroking his chin thoughtfully as the four of them made their way across the lobby of the Hermitage and towards the lifts. The building was elegant to say the least-- designed with a romantic, belle-époque charm, with glittering white walls and delicately-flourished balcony railings and chandeliers. The ceiling of the lobby was topped with a decorative cupola, allowing the gentle spring sunlight to filter down onto the red velvet carpet and furniture that dotted the room. 

The guests scattered about the room were either lounging about on the seating, walking leisurely towards their next destinations, or waiting their turns at the concierge. The four teenagers momentarily struggled amidst a larger gaggle of people that were shuffling around with their luggage near the check-in desk and had to wait a few minutes for a less packed lift amongst the crowd, but they soon managed to make it through.

The lift took The Them to the top floor landing without incident, depositing them out into a large open space that housed the luxuriously modern Crystal Bar and lounge, flanked on both sides by a set of handsome wood and iron staircases that led to an open-air terrace, rooftop seawater pool, and sauna area. 

“So fancy,” murmured Brian, with just a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Next stop, Diamond Suites,” said Wensley.

“Soon, we’ll know everything there is to know about Sunglasses,” Adam said, grinning mischievously before reaching into his jacket pocket for the key.

Except it wasn’t there.

He patted his pocket, confused. Then he checked his inside chest pocket. Both of his trouser pockets. Nothing. The key card was nowhere to be found. 

“Looking for this?” a voice called casually from nearby.

Adam startled, glancing between Pepper, Brian, and Wensley, before finally identifying the source of the voice. It was Sunglasses, slouched impossibly atop a stool at the nearby bar, his jacket slung casually across the seat next to him. His back was turned, not even looking at them, instead swirling the dregs of a drink in the crystal tumbler in front of him with one hand. In the other, in clear view of Adam and the Them, he flashed a hotel room keycard, held loosely between two fingers like a playing card. 

“When-- how did you--” Adam spluttered. No. It had been in his jacket pocket. He was sure of it. 

The man scoffed as he threw back the last of his drink, flicking a half-spent cigarette into a nearby ashtray and rising from the bar stool. “You’re at least fifteen years too young for whatever it is you’re trying to pull. I could outsmart the four of you with one hand tied behind my back.”

Adam and Pepper glowered at him, caught but too prideful to admit it. Brian and Wensley at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Adam Young prided himself in being good at reading people. Usually, arrogance from a mark was a weakness to be exploited, a trait that left holes in people’s defences in their efforts to appear impervious, superior to their fellow man and certainly superior to what appeared to be an unruly group of children. It was a common trait that had served The Them well for the past two years or so, as they traipsed around to different affluent places, slipping in somewhere unnoticed and making off with whatever riches they could get their hands on.

There was a distinction between arrogance and the easy, confident swagger that Sunglasses seemed to project. To Adam’s utter chagrin, he couldn’t seem to pin down what the man was feeling or thinking, uncertainties further exacerbated by the fact that half his face was obscured by those round, silver-framed shades. The sunglasses and the stark red hair should’ve made him easy to spot in a crowd, but somehow none of the four of them had spotted him sitting there at the bar when they first got off of the lift, and even worse, none of them had spotted him in the short window of time that had elapsed between Brian successfully programming the keycard and the compromising situation they were faced with now. It was as if the notions of standing out and melting into a crowd were simply states of being that the man could toggle at will. 

Adam’s eyelids fell shut as he tried to maintain control over his breathing. At this point, even he had to admit defeat. They wouldn’t and couldn’t win against the man before them-- it was painfully obvious that he was operating in an entirely different echelon than them. For the first time in his life, Adam Young was completely out of his depths.

Sunglasses shrugged his dinner jacket back on, buttoned it, and sauntered past them before stopping briefly with a stony expression on his face.

“Go home, you lot,” he said humourlessly. “You’ve _no_ idea what you’re getting yourselves into.”

\------------------------------

Crowley was in a foul mood. He shoved his hands in his pocket and grumbled internally as he made the short walk from the Crystal Bar back to his suite. 

A few hours ago, he’d gunned his rental car up the coast to Le Méridien Beach Plaza, with no rock-solid plan on how to get Sable’s chips back into the man’s possession without endangering himself or the four teenagers. It was by pure, unadulterated luck that when he pulled into the cul-de-sac in front of the hotel, one of Sable’s bodyguards had been standing just outside the front door having a smoke break. Crowley had deliberated very briefly on which direction of persuasion, charm or threat, to go with, before settling on charm out of pure necessity to make a quick decision. He’d put on his most innocuous, harmless affectation, and convinced the bodyguard that he’d found the bag on the ground on his own way out of the casino and recognised its unique colour before deciding to play Good Samaritan and return it to Sable. It was all there, he reassured the man, opening the bag and showing him its contents. 

Neither of them actively deigned to acknowledge the €100 note that Crowley pressed into the bodyguard’s hand as he leaned in close and whispered “ _I was never here, alright mate?_ ”, before he quickly returned to his car and floored it back in the direction of his own hotel. That hush money would be coming out of Crowley’s own pocket, to be sure. The one upside was that he was fairly sure the guard wouldn’t sell him out, partly because of the charm angle but mainly because he probably felt more than a bit sorry for Crowley after the excruciating blackjack debacle. A goddamn blessing in disguise, that turned out to be. 

But the theme of the day was truly one problem after another, wasn’t it? Presently, Crowley could already feel the onset of a tension headache. The quick smoke and Old-Fashioned that he’d indulged in at the bar just then definitely didn’t help the situation. 

He didn’t understand what it was about him that seemed to attract underage pickpockets, vagrants, and other aspiring career criminals. Was it the glasses? The tattoo? The way he talked or his personality? That couldn’t be right. Most people hated his personality, when he wasn’t putting on a persona for a job anyway. But maybe that was exactly why teenagers seemed to gravitate towards it, considering teenagers hated most people. 

Just having to deal with Warlock was enough for him. He very much did _not_ want to add any more wayward teenagers to the mix. Anthony J. Crowley wasn’t keen on starting up the world’s worst orphanage, thanks very much.

Despite everything, Crowley was hyper aware of the four sets of footsteps that had been trailing unevenly behind him for the two or three minutes that had passed since he’d left the bar. He’d just been...putting off addressing it. Procrastinating, if you like. But he was getting close to his room, and there was no way he was going to let the owners of those footsteps anywhere near there, so he really had no choice but to face the music now. 

He sighed, and turned around.

“I’m not an idiot, you know. Stop following me.”

“We’re not following you?” one of the boys (Not-Yet-An-Accountant, Crowley thought absentmindedly) said, in a feeble attempt at a lie.

“You’re not even hiding,” Crowley pointed out.

“Hiding wouldn’t work even if we tried, I shouldn’t think…?” Not-Yet-An-Accountant contended. 

“Well, that’s at least the first smart thing any of you have said all day,” Crowley replied, crossing his arms and looking at them pointedly. There was a beat of awkward silence. 

“Oh, get on with it,” Spitfire Girl said, irked, all but shoving one of the other boys, Sticky Fingers, forward from the back of the group. He stumbled a little, nervous but determined, before starting in on some kind of speech that he’d clearly practised in front of a mirror at some point in the past few hours. 

“R-Raven Sable,” he started, clearing his throat. 

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Raven Montgomery Sable,” the boy repeated, with a bit more confidence this time. “American national, born in Detroit, the only son of Liberian immigrants. Read at Harvard Medical for endocrinology, but scrapped that to open a restaurant instead? One of those fancy molecular gastronomy places. Then he dipped into narcotics, making a name for himself serving all kinds of, er, what he called ‘substance as sustenance’? Um, fancy drugs I guess, to super rich people. Now he’s using his access to those circles to pinpoint all sorts of rare art and collectibles and selling his intel to thieves on the black market. And I guess he’s, er...not very nice when he comes across loose ends on either side,” he finished, hands fidgeting in front of his chest.

It wasn’t exactly an inspired speech. It left much to be desired in the way of delivery, Crowley thought. But he had to admit that he was a bit impressed. Sable was not an easy man to pin down; his official records were squeaky clean, if a bit eccentric. Learning the intricacies of his side dealings was generally a gradual, drawn-out process even for professionals like Crowley. And yet somehow, in just a few hours, a grubby teen, who for all intents and purposes looked like he should be focussing on revising for his A-levels instead of traipsing around Monaco, had cracked through those defences and came out with a pretty good picture of the man in question.

“Right, so...gold star for doing your homework I s’pose, but what’s your point here exactly?” Crowley asked.

“Uh...” Sticky Fingers started. 

“The point is,” Leader Boy said quickly, recognising panic when he saw it and swooping in to save his friend, “The point is, we made a mistake.”

Crowley merely waited for the teenager to continue. 

“You were right-- we didn’t know anything about Sable when we decided to nick the chips,” the boy explained, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. “We just picked him because he was alone, and you were too; you both looked rich enough to be a wicked score, but he had a higher profit margin during the game, so we went for him. That’s it, really.”

That still didn’t explain why they were following Crowley. The boy knew this; he paused, struggling for a moment to seemingly swallow his pride before steeling himself for what he was going to say next.

“We want you to teach us,” he blurted.

“Sorry, _what?_ ” Crowley said, incredulous. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it definitely wasn’t that.

“You said before,” the boy continued, “that not doing our homework ‘in this business’ would be fatal. That means you’re in this business too, right? You could teach us how to navigate this stuff.”

“Okay,” Crowley started, slowly, enunciating his words with just an edge of menace, “You are aware, that I’ve no idea who you lot are or what you want to do? In fact, I suspect _you_ barely even know that. And for that matter, you’ve no idea who _I_ am or what I do-- I could be an assassin-for-hire for all you know. What’s stopping me from killing the whole lot of you right here and being on my merry way?” No doubt Sticky Fingers had cracked the hotel database if he’d been able to find his room number, but Crowley never gave his real name or information while he worked. Raven Sable was the king of a food and drug empire-- making a name for himself was an innate part of his quest for power. Crowley on the other hand was a free agent-- just a means to an end, a strategic, unbiassed piece in other people’s lofty games. He was a chameleon in appearance and a ghost in the system, and that was the way he liked it. 

He baulked at the thought of ever killing anyone, but the kids sure as hell didn’t need to know that.

“He’s not denying that he’s in the business!” Spitfire Girl exclaimed, completely ignoring Crowley’s threat and pointing at him accusingly as if he were a murder suspect in a B-grade daytime soap opera.

“I think,” Leader Boy countered cautiously, “that if you were going to kill us, you would’ve already done it. And why intercept us cashing Sable’s chips when you could’ve, y’know, just watched him come after us from afar? You had no skin in the game, after all. I think at heart, you care what happens to us,” he finished. 

It was a good thing Crowley was excellent at hiding his emotions. Visibly, he didn’t react to the damning accusation at all, but internally, he was screaming in frustration. 

“Even if that were true, and mind you, that’s still up for contention,” Crowley asked, trying to put on his best glare, but finding himself getting increasingly...exhausted, at the ridiculous situation unfolding before him, “why in the _Nine Circles of Hell_ would that extend to me wanting to play mentor for four reckless kids? I’m a busy man.”

“Because…” Not-Yet-An-Accountant started hesitantly, not having thought this through.

“Because…” Sticky Fingers said slowly, having apparently spent all of his brain capacity on the Sable biography, with none left to spare.

“Because if you don’t, we’re probably going to keep making stupid mistakes, and one day we might get killed by someone else, and it’ll all be _your_ fault!” Leader Boy proclaimed loudly, pointing at Crowley and beaming triumphantly as if he hadn’t just essentially resorted to an absurdist’s notion of extortion.

Crowley paused. “Are you-- did you just try to _threaten_ my _conscience?_ ”

“No,” all four of them said quickly, in unison. They all looked away in different directions, like a perfectly coordinated troupe of insufferable improv comedians. 

Crowley lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers in exasperation. His headache was in full swing at this point. 

“Look,” he said, wanting very much to get this over with so he could go back to his room and bury himself in bed, “I’ll say this. You all are obviously daring. Lots of potential, for your age. I’m sure you’ve gotten away with a lot in however long you’ve been doing whatever the fuck it is you’re doing, and not just because of good luck, either. But you were splashing in a pond, and this? Sable and others like him? That’s the great blue sea, and if you don’t wisen up accordingly, you’ll be dead in a ditch before Christmas.” 

He shifted his feet and stared at Leader Boy. “You’re not ready,” Crowley stated simply and definitively. “You’re naïve. Uninformed. Not skilled enough. Out of the four of you, I’d say you,” he said, pointing at Sticky Fingers, “are the only one remotely close to being a proper player in this game. But lose the hesitation and learn how to articulate yourself, or you’ll just be steamrolled out there.”

“You,” he said, training his gaze on Spitfire Girl. “You’re determined and clearly have something to say, but you’re too pent-up to think properly. Take some hand-to-hand combat lessons, or go rally driving or something. Channel that energy somewhere, because following your heart before your brain will only get you killed.”

“You,” he said, turning to Not-Yet-An-Accountant. “I’ve no idea what the point of you is, honestly. You should probably figure that out, if you're going to stick around.”

“And you,” he said, finally turning to Leader Boy. “You’re obviously cunning and charismatic, and think yourself the boss of this little outfit. But I’d learn some humility, kid. Frankly, if it weren’t for your overconfidence and stupid decisions, none of your little gang would’ve been compromised three times over today. If you fancy yourself a leader, you’ve got to shoulder the weight of your team’s failures, too.”

All four of the teenagers’ eyes went wide, caught off guard that they were actually getting advice. Not-Yet-An-Accountant even had the gall to pull a fucking legal notepad and a pencil out of his pocket and start scribbling in it. Crowley shot him an absolutely murderous glare, which made the boy freeze mid-scribble. 

“Just so I’m being perfectly clear,” Crowley said, sighing, “I think this is a terrible idea. I think you all should go back to studying economics or accountancy or whatever it is you were doing before you decided to launch this harebrained scheme. But clearly you’re already some level of in too deep here, and if you’re going to make bad decisions, you could at least do it in a smarter way. So.”

“So you’ll teach us?” Leader Boy said hopefully, excitement shining clear in his eyes.

“No.” Crowley said flatly. The boy deflated visibly, almost like a cartoon. Crowley snatched the notepad and pencil from Not-Yet-An-Accountant and flipped to a new page.

“What you need to do is figure out exactly what your little gang is aiming to achieve, because instinct tells me it’s not to score petty cash for yourselves,” he said, scrawling something on the notepad. “And if it is, you’re not worth my time anyway. Until you’ve got a coherent goal and a rock-solid plan to get there, you won’t stand a chance.”

He tore out the page he’d written on and held it out to Leader Boy, tossing the pad and pencil back to Not-Yet-An-Accountant, who scrambled to catch them. 

“Call this number when you think you’re ready. And let me be crystal clear, you get _one_ chance. You call before you’re ready and waste my time? I’m gone. In the wind. And if _any_ of you try to speak to or approach me again here in Monte Carlo, or if I even _see_ you looking like you’re up to no good, same thing. Got it?”

Leader Boy took the slip of paper and nodded, swallowing nervously.

“Can you at least tell us how you knew we were going to try and break into your room?” Spitfire Girl asked. 

Crowley sighed as he waved a hand towards Leader Boy’s jacket. “Right breast pocket,” he said.

A look of confusion flashed across the boy’s face as he reached a hand into the aforementioned pocket. He dug around for a few seconds, before finally fishing out the tiny circular bug. The four teenagers crowded around it, gasping almost simultaneously as they registered what it was. 

“Slipped it in when I nicked the chips,” Crowley said. “I’ll have it back now, yeah?” He held out his hand expectantly. 

Leader Boy slowly passed it over, staring at Crowley the entire time. Crowley felt very much like a specimen on display at the zoo, being scrutinised on his every movement. He took the bug, switched it off, and tucked it away into his own pocket. 

“If that’s all?” he said in exasperation.

The four teenagers all nodded, silently. 

“Good,” Crowley said, turning his back on them and shoving his hands into his pockets as he started to walk away. “Now piss off. I’ve had enough of you lot.”

Crowley didn’t see any of the four teenagers for the rest of his week in Monaco. He spent the week sitting in his meetings, in his rented Aston Martin, and in various restaurants and cafés, annoyed.

Because no matter how much he told himself that it was idiotic, that it was preposterous, that it was aggravating, the embarrassing truth remained: Leader Boy’s stupid threat had actually _worked_.

Three and a half years later, when Crowley’s phone rang from an unknown number, he picked up. 

Not five minutes in, and he already knew: he was well and truly fucked.

He stared at the email from Warlock he’d been reading when the phone had rung, then buried his head in his hands. 

One and four made five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I would've gotten away with pretending I was cool for a whole week, if it weren't for you meddling kids" -Crowley, probably
> 
> I originally wanted the blackjack part in this chapter to be a cool card counting or wordplay scene like in 21 or Casino Royale, but it turns out I'm hopelessly card-game illiterate. Tfw even research doesn't help you understand :')
> 
> As usual, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a splinter group can just be a man and the five not-quite children that he definitely didn't intend to take under his wing. Never mind that it's because of them that Crowley's not quite the villain he claims himself to be.

_**Present Day (November 2019)** \- Brixton, London, UK_

“You went _back?!!_ ” Warlock very nearly shouted, attracting a few odd looks from passersby.

“I know, I know,” Crowley sighed, hunching his shoulders in shame as he sank into one of the faded old chairs lined up outside the dingy café they were waiting in front of. He shook the midday drizzle from his black umbrella, carefully to avoid getting any water on himself. “It was kind of a dumb move.”

“ _Kind of?!_ ” Warlock cried, disbelieving. “Are you fucking daft, Uncle AJ? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was, for you _and_ Mr. Fell?”

“Of _course_ I do, that’s why I didn’t want to go in the first place!” Crowley hissed, looking around surreptitiously in an effort to avoid attracting too much attention. “ _You’re_ the one who recommended him to me, remember?”

“I recommended him because you were in a pinch and he could get the job done without anyone noticing, not so you could get _wasted_ and risk everything by calling him again!”

There wasn’t much Crowley could say to defend himself on that front. And so--

“I like him,” he said, turning his face away from Warlock.

“You what now?” Warlock replied, taken aback.

“Look, I don’t care about the jobs, ‘Lock. Forget them. I’ll never ask him to check another piece again. You and me, we go back to our regular arrangement. But I _like_ Aziraphale. As-- as a friend.”

Warlock narrowed his eyes at him. Crowley just sat there, waiting for whatever judgment was coming. They both knew this was highly irregular, highly irresponsible; Crowley didn’t _do_ friends, and this was exactly why.

Finally, Warlock sighed. “You’re an asshole,” he said. His Americanisms tended to slip out in force when he was upset. “I should’ve known something was up when you called this meeting without looping me into the job.”

“Yeah, I probably deserve that one,” Crowley admitted.

“So what, then? Outside of jobs, what’re you planning to do? Hang out at his shop? Exchange emails?”

“I’m taking him to lunch on Saturday,” Crowley said glumly. “In the Bentley.”

Warlock gaped at him. Crowley never let _anyone_ in the Bentley. It had taken _years_ of begging and somewhat of an emergency situation for him to finally get a ride in the damn car, and he considered himself pretty well-behaved. As a fellow car enthusiast, Pepper had been allowed in a few times, but to this day, Crowley had kept Adam, trouble incarnate, and Brian, a walking personification of grubby fingers, out of the car despite constant protesting. Wensley didn’t seem to care either way. 

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you,” Warlock said. It’d been years since he’d last seen Crowley in this state. 

“Oi, language,” Crowley snapped, out of habit more than anything. They both knew he didn’t mean it; Warlock was twenty-six, for Satan’s sake. He was scolding Crowley now, and he was _right_ , too. Crowley sighed. They sure grew up fast.

When Crowley had met Warlock eleven years ago, he’d only expected to be a sporadic shoulder to cry on-- a weird, irreverent adult figure that Warlock could vent his frustrations at or grab the occasional bite to eat with if things became too overwhelming at home. 

Nothing could be further from what ended up actually happening. From the shadows, via countless weekend coffee outings (and on one memorable occasion, a trip to Crowley’s flat during which he’d shrugged and offered the underage teen a bottle of stout), Crowley had helped him orchestrate a plan to navigate the fearsome foe that was Thaddeus Dowling.

Warlock more or less managed to stay out of trouble through the end of secondary by returning home to a shaky dynamic with his parents, unaided by any siblings or terribly close friends. He spent the entire time, with Crowley’s help behind the scenes, carefully nudging his father towards letting him follow a career path of his own choosing. The plan worked, and it didn’t. Nothing could be perfect in one’s life, Crowley supposed. In the end, Thaddeus Dowling didn’t budge on letting Warlock try to become a professional artist (whatever creative endeavors the boy got up to in his spare time was another matter, though after what they’d christened as The Great Art Dump of 2008, Crowley suddenly found a significant corner of his sitting room occupied by drying canvasses, torn sketchbook pages, and the most dismal-looking Gibson Les Paul guitar he’d ever seen), but he _did_ concede a tad by allowing him a second major in art history, on the condition that Warlock himself earned the money to pay for any extra expenses that arose from it. 

For his first major, Warlock and Crowley considered several options, and eventually landed on Chemistry (versus Warlock’s first choices of Illustration or Archaeology), deciding that if their main plan didn’t work, chemistry at least had the repute of being a STEM science that someone as stuffy as Thaddeus Dowling could likely still get behind. And much to their relief, he begrudgingly accepted.

The Main Plan, unbeknownst to Warlock’s father, was for Warlock to enter museum conservation. It was the next best thing for him after becoming an artist himself; he’d get to delve into art history but still work with art hands on, it was a rather solitary job (god knows he’d never been the most social person), he’d get to avoid his father’s political dealings, and at a high level, it was still reputable in the eyes of London’s elite. It was public knowledge that the Dowlings were both Council members at the Society of Antiquaries (even though Warlock knew that his father took that role more for the status than any real passion for art; his mother had a more genuine stake in the topic), so entering the museum business would seem very much in line with his family’s interests, even if privately, it was a different matter. 

At first, Warlock had resisted the plan out of pure stubbornness, not wanting to be associated with his father in that way, but a light smack to the back of his head and a scathing ‘ _Get over yourself, do you want to study art or not?_ ’ from Crowley had quickly put that notion to rest. The one catch was that when the time came to look for a job, Warlock refused to use his father’s surname or standing to help him land a position in any way. He wanted to earn it, on his own merit. Crowley could definitely get behind that. 

And so, Warlock Dowling went off to university at Oxford on a substantial scholarship, double majoring in Chemistry and Art History, and supplementing his extra expenses by working at the campus library. Crowley helped where he could-- he’d never even taken his GCSEs, but he did have a decent amount of knowledge on art history (questionably obtained, through work), physics (from his lifelong obsession with astronomy), and literature (from reading books, often _after_ having seen the film adaptations). Mostly he just served as a place for Warlock to go when he wanted to get away from home or campus and was willing to put up with being mildly annoyed by an eccentric middle-aged man for a few hours. 

In the back of Crowley’s mind, the failsafe had always been this: if at any point Warlock’s relationship with his family truly crumbled beyond repair, Crowley would be there to cushion the fall. It wouldn’t be until around 2010 when he first had this thought consciously, in close proximity to the first time Warlock decided to call him ‘Uncle AJ’, that Crowley realised the relationship he held with Warlock Dowling had evolved into one of the most important things in his life. They were family, in every meaningful definition of the word. From then on, he was just Warlock’s mysterious cool uncle (or at least, he secretly hoped Warlock found him cool). Never mind the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Dowling had no idea he even existed. 

By the time Warlock landed his internship at the Society in 2013 (cleverly, with flying colours and a pseudonym that he dropped as soon as the Head Conservator told him he had the job), he knew more about Crowley than any other person on Earth. Sure, Crowley had known Lucille and Bee for a lot longer, but the difference was that he told Warlock everything about his past _willingly_ , and without the effortlessly-cavalier and emotionally-guarded veneer that he cultivated at work. Warlock knew about his moods, his anxieties, all the little tics that he fell into before and after a job, the personal tidbits that were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things but completed the full picture of Anthony J. Crowley. 

Warlock Dowling held, wholly and completely, the power to destroy him, and yet, after successfully winning his father’s approval with the internship and going on to complete his master’s in Fine Art Conservation, Warlock, a now fully-fledged and self-sufficient adult, did not abandon Crowley. Instead, after meeting the Them in 2014, he’d come to Crowley and proposed a daring plan.

A plan which had been in motion ever since, and was the very reason the two of them were now waiting in front of one Lola’s Café, Brixton.

“Warlock!” a voice called from down the street. Both of them looked up and in the direction of the sound. Warlock brightened instantly when he saw who it was, stuffing the indignation he’d been firing point blank at Crowley away for another day and replacing it with a toothy grin.

“Adam!” he exclaimed, leaning in for a hug when the other boy drew close, then turning to the rest of The Them. “Hey Pep, Brian, Wensley. It’s been forever since all of us were together like this.”

“You missed our do at Crowley’s last time!” Pepper said, snagging a hug of her own from Warlock. 

“Sorry,” Warlock said sheepishly. “Had work.”

“You always have work,” she complained. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” Adam said, rolling his eyes and lacing his fingers together behind his head.

“He’s got a point,” Wensley said, pushing up his glasses. “We all work pretty long hours.”

Pepper stuck her tongue out at him. “Thanks, _Professor Timecard_. Anyway,” she said, turning to Crowley, “we’re all here now, and Crowley owes me a lunch!”

“Oh, s’that all I’m good for now?” Crowley said, crossing his arms and giving her a stern look from behind his sunglasses. “Free food?”

“Yep,” Pepper said, grinning. She grabbed Warlock by the arm and pulled him towards the door. “Come on, let’s go!” 

Crowley followed as the five kids (Satan help him, he still couldn’t call them anything besides kids in his head) filed into the café and dumped their umbrellas into the rack by the door, signalling six to the hostess as she gathered up a stack of menus and led them to a table in the far corner of the room. It was nearing two in the afternoon, past peak lunch hours now, not to mention the café wasn’t exactly London’s hottest restaurant, so the customers were sparse. Ideal. 

They were an odd bunch, he had to admit.

Adam, with his head of rascally blond curls, ever-mischievous and conspicuously bold in a bright blue athletic jacket, mud-splattered Timberland boots, and a pair of khaki cargo shorts despite the near-freezing temperatures outside.

Warlock, simultaneously pale and dark, eyes edged with the liner he reserved for days he didn’t have to see anyone too stuffy at work, wearing a thick, dark grey checked flannel over a Joy Division tee, faded black denims, and blackout high-top Converses. His nails were painted black, though it seemed he’d never gotten past his teenage tendency of letting them chip and flake at the edges.

Wensleydale, neat and upright as usual in navy slacks and a white button-up under an argyle sweater vest, because of course it was argyle, his heavy, square-rimmed glasses looking, as always, just slightly too big for his rounded face. There was a conspicuous splatter of yellow paint adorning the edge of one of his shirt cuffs.

Brian, frazzled-looking as per norm, in dirty blue jeans and wellies that had been god knows where, not one but two olive-drab hoodies layered over a striped tee, hair dark and rumpled in a just-out-of-bed manner (the actual kind, as opposed to Crowley’s meticulously-styled bedhead). He clutched an open bag of crisps, despite the fact that they were about to have lunch.

Pepper, no-nonsense and ever-vigilant with her natural curly hair done up in a poofy ponytail, looking bright and airy in a translucent red vinyl raincoat, black overall shorts over a loose jumper and subtly sheer black tights. She had on shiny red combat boots that had probably, at one point, seen combat. 

All in all, five mid-twenty-somethings, each looking wildly different, all sort-of-but-not-really supervised by Crowley, a rather ostentatious-looking middle-aged man wearing sunglasses indoors and dressed in all black-- a distressed denim jacket over a slim knit jumper, skinny jeans slashed at the knees, and a pair of stompy lace-up boots. His nails were also black today, though unlike Warlock’s purposefully-grungy ones, Crowley’s were neat and glossy. 

The six of them were, as they’d been for the past four years, the perfect team.

They made small talk for a few minutes after putting in their lunch orders, asking after each other about this and that to stall as they waited on the food. Crowley and Warlock argued over the legitimacy of modern hard rock bands like Greta Van Fleet: ironically, Crowley felt that they were perfectly talented kids making good music, while Warlock was of the ilk that they were just a Led Zeppelin ripoff. Brian vanished the rest of his crisps as he and Wensley discussed the weapon balance in the latest _Battlefield_ , and Adam and Pepper took turns slinging insults at Boris Johnson’s latest Brexit presser. It was nice to have a sort of built-in time to just hash about as friends, what with all of their schedules being so busy and all. 

Finally, the food arrived, and the mood of the conversation immediately shifted.

“So,” Crowley said, steepling his fingers together after sending the waitress away with a curt vocal equivalent of a hotel ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, “what’ve you got for me?” 

“Loads,” Adam said, taking the lead after gulping down half his glass of water in a single go. “Itinerary’s pretty much all settled on our end. Pepper, why don’t you start?”

Pepper cleared her throat, sitting up straight and business-like. “So you gave us the asset...three weeks ago,” she said, mulling over the dates in her head. “Better window than Berlin by the way, Wensley really appreciated that.” She glanced at Wensley, who flashed Crowley a grateful smile. “Anyway, Brian and I scoured the web trying to piece together the piece’s trajectory. Things got pretty muddy after the war obviously, that’s how it was lost in the first place. I’m sure your side knew that already. But Brian,” she said, nudging him affectionately (he shrugged in response, focussing intensely on inhaling his extra-everything full English breakfast), “really worked his magic. He wrote a script to cull the Portale Antenati for the surname Mezzoli, and when that didn’t work, he cracked into old Catholic parish records and the Italian state archives for civil documents held back from the public during wartime. 

The 14th century stuff was real sparse, but we managed to track Serafino Mezzoli down 18 generations, through a mix of Brian’s stuff and a few trips Adam and I took to local libraries in the Fabriano area for physical-only records. The family line was sort of broken; a lot of the members were military, and had their threads cut by war through the ages, but get this-- he’s got exactly one surviving direct descendant. Lucia Salvatore, sixty-seven-- and not only was she an art history lecturer at Accademia di Delle Arti in Rome before retiring, she now spearheads art scholarship fundraisers for low-income students through a gallery space she runs in Siena, all while piecing together research on her family’s ancestry in her own time. Background check came through with no problems. Crowley,” she said, leaning back in her seat and looking very pleased with herself, “she’s perfect.” 

“Got to see the Pope after we were done,” Adam said, smirking as he took a bite of his fish and chips. “Pepper wouldn’t shut up about the ‘colonialistic influence of the Catholic Church on modern society’ the whole time. I mean she’s right, but I still thought his hat was wicked. Anyway, Wensley?” 

“Yes,” Wensley piped up, pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose. “While they were in Italy, I did a cross-check on the watermark that your authenticator found, using the Briquet database, and confirmed 14th-century Italian. Did a chemical analysis of the charcoal, then passed both through our network to have the materials fabricated to spec. It took a bit to get the things on hand, but after that, it wasn’t too difficult to pull off. A lot simpler than Berlin. Fun, too. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to actually feel like an artist doing a piece for you. It’s been mostly metal and ceramic stuff for a while.”

“Shoulda seen him,” Brian said, speaking for the first time, albeit with his mouth full. “Practically dancing ‘round the clubhouse.” A bit of gravy dripped down his chin and onto his shirt. It was not the first stain to have landed there.

“I was not!” Wensley retorted defensively. “And stop calling it a clubhouse, we’re not ten anymore.” Wensley, it could be argued in a philosophical sense, had never been ten. He behaved as if he’d been born with the mental age of forty-seven. To this day, even his parents remained bewildered at that.

“Still a clubhouse,” Brian, Pepper, and Adam refuted in tandem. Wensley huffed in annoyance, returning to his pie, mash, and jellied eels. He was the only person any of them knew, or perhaps in all of Britain save for the makers of the jellied eel, who actually _liked_ them. 

“ _Anyway,_ ” Warlock said, rolling his eyes at his friends’ antics. “The replica’s fucking perfect. Wens sent me a photo yesterday, can’t tell a damn thing apart.” 

“I got in contact with Lucia a few days ago,” Pepper said. “She’s _amazing_ , Crowley-- independent and headstrong and takes no shit from anybody, and looks _so_ good for her age-- I want to _be_ her when I grow up. Turns out, the piece was _stolen_ from some clueless aristocrat’s estate almost a hundred years ago, and she’s been looking for it ever since. She’d almost given up on finding it-- but she was over the moon to hear that we had it, and cooperated with us every step of the way.” She looked practically lovestruck at the thought of the older woman.

“So I reached out to some of our contacts in Italy and made the proper arrangements,” Adam continued. “We can do a cargo flight to Florence, bypass customs, have someone with the asset all the way through ground transportation to Siena."

“I looked over the legal side of it all too,” Pepper said. “I don’t think she’ll gab, she’s got no reason to, but we’ll be in the wind long before she can do anything on that front. Correspondence records scrubbed. She won’t be able to find us. She’s a pure academic, she’s got no interest in showing the thing off or connecting with the elite collector’s world, so Prince should be none the wiser when you give them the replica, either.”

“So that’s the plan,” Adam said, popping a finger out of his mouth as he polished off the last of his plate of fish and chips. “Sound good?”

Crowley leaned his chair back on its two hind legs. The extraordinary group of people in front of him-- these _children_ , at their young age-- never failed to leave him in awe. Every time they did this, their clandestine meetings hidden away in out-of-the-way eateries or discreet public areas, Crowley felt more and more outclassed, but more than that, he felt proud. 

It’d only been eight years since Monte Carlo, five since Adam’s do-or-die phone call in 2014, after which Crowley had agreed to meet the four of them in a private reading room at the London Library, and hear them out. The story Adam told went like this:

The four of them had grown up together in the small, idyllic village of Tadfield, located about sixty miles give or take outside London proper, and had become inseparable friends ever since banding together to terrorise the neighborhood on bicycles at the tender age of nine, having built their first clubhouse of sorts out of lingering driftwood and old car tyres they’d found next to a creek in the nearby woods. The more gossipy, easily-offended older villagers had called them many names over the years-- a gang, a menace, those rambunctious kids-- but in the end, everyone knew them simply as The Them, and so it stuck. 

All throughout their childhoods, The Them had maintained a simultaneous desire for both mischief and justice. Apparently, there’d been a village lady who thrust conspiracy theory magazines at Adam starting at a very young age, and while it took him a few years to concede that there probably weren’t Vietnamese spies hiding underground beneath England listening to everything everyone was doing, it’d exposed him to more realistic world issues like climate change and corporate greed and political bribery, all things that, in the end, stemmed from adult hypocrisy. Arguing amongst themselves about these issues became as common an activity for the Them as pranking R.P. Tyler, the grumpy head of the local neighbourhood watch association, or romping about the woods catching frogs. 

The four of them had somehow all managed to attend the same public secondary school, a prestigious one located in central London, and maintained their stalwart friendship throughout. Going off to university was a bigger change than any of them had anticipated, though; all of them ended up at different schools, and though they were all good students, life without the other three quickly proved to be a life that was _missing_ something. There was a desire for synergy, for chemistry, for _change_...a sum greater than its parts that each member of The Them couldn’t reproduce individually no matter how much they tried to throw themselves into their studies. They continued to watch bad things happen in the world, and each of them felt helpless to do anything about it.

Adam, in true fashion, was the first to break the mould, proposing a daring notion to the others that if the system was broken, why bother following it? Didn’t many significant events that changed history for the better occur whilst breaking the law? Would it be so bad, if the end result was that people less fortunate could be helped? 

So unbeknownst to their parents, the four of them dropped out of university-- this took an enormous amount of convincing, but Adam’s natural charisma won out in the end-- banded back together in England, and started pursuing a new goal of becoming modern-day Robin Hoods. In the beginning, they took that notion quite literally, coming to the conclusion that money, in both abundance and scarcity, was the cause of many of the world’s problems, seeking to siphon it from those they felt were undeserving to those who needed it most. They became daring if slightly unfocussed thieves: robbing wealthy collectors of their treasures, embezzling funds from poorly-allocated corporate budgets, nicking the safes of local drug dealers, and eventually, trying to pinch chips off of wealthy socialites at the Casino de Monte Carlo, all with the goal of putting that money towards the charities and causes they cared about.

Crowley had found their intentions intriguing, but their methods laughably naïve, a sentiment he’d already expressed three years prior in Monaco. But in the time since, The Them had stopped their scattered attempts at vigilantism, and gathered together to refocus, with the express goal of impressing Crowley.

This effort started with Brian. As Crowley suspected, Brian had been a bright kid from the get-go, having displayed an alarmingly prodigal aptitude for computers and technology from a very young age. He’d netted a full ride to MIT in the States as a foreign exchange student, and had been well on his way to an honestly insulting-to-his-skillset Computer Science degree when he’d answered Adam’s call. By year 7, he could mess with his secondary school’s database. Upon entering MIT, he could already bypass almost any corporation’s security system. By the time Adam called Crowley, Brian could crack the Pentagon. His skill was extraordinary, made even more so by the fact that he looked completely and utterly unremarkable, thin and unkempt and still always covered in a seemingly permanent layer of grime, which had earned him his initial nickname of Sticky Fingers from Crowley. There was nothing Crowley could teach him about computers, but over the years, he taught him how to lean into his unassuming appearance and streamline his research for maximum effectiveness, and on one memorable occasion, the dos-and-don’ts of corporate blackmail. 

Crowley had also been eerily accurate in his initial assessment of Pepper, aka Spitfire Girl, whose real name he had learned was Pippen Galadriel Moonchild, an unfortunate fact which he suspected accounted for at least sixty percent of her propensity for righteous fury. The other forty came from a childhood surrounded by tales of injustice; Pepper’s mother was a trailblazing civil rights lawyer, and her father an unyielding investigative journalist. She had an unalienable sense of right and wrong and an uncanny knack for debate, skills she’d taken into Pre-Law at Cambridge before leaving to join the rest of the Them. She’d taken up Krav Maga after Monaco. Crowley sparred with her on the weekends, taught her how to drive a getaway car, and walked her through the ins-and-outs of playing vernacular hardball with seasoned criminals. And while he still maintained an edge on the driving front, these days he found himself knocked flat on his back during sparring sessions more often than not. His excuse was that he was just getting old-- whether or not this was true didn’t change how much she liked to tease him about it, though.

Wensleydale, who Crowley had named Not-Yet-An-Accountant purely as a joke, had, incredibly, indeed been pursuing a Bachelor’s in Accounting at the University of London when all this had happened. And thank Someone it did, because otherwise Crowley highly doubted the boy would ever have discovered his hidden and now main talent: forgery. Checks. Identification papers (and with Brian’s help, electronic credentials). Counterfeiting, and most wildly, art. This late-blooming, almost savant-like talent was likely at least a little related to Wensley’s mild case of Asperger’s: he’d always had an extreme affinity for analysis and detail, his eyes attentive and his fingers dextrous, every word he spoke and every move he made precise and accurate to the millimetre. He wasn’t an artist, per se: rather, he had a startling ability to imitate the movements and emotions of those who were, and in the eyes of an appraiser, there was really no difference. Crowley introduced him to Warlock, taught him art history, and smuggled him fake passports and papers that Prince had fabricated for their agents over the years. In his opinion, Wensley would’ve been utterly wasted as an accountant, even if he could probably be the best damn accountant this side of the Atlantic.

And then there was Adam, Leader Boy, the only child of mild-mannered, pleasant, and perfectly-average Deirdre and Arthur Young, and the glue between the seams of the Them. He’d been pursuing an MBA at Stanford, also across the pond like Brian, and Crowley was sure that if he’d continued, he’d have a trailblazing career at some fancy finance company on Wall Street by now. His magnetism as a natural leader unearthed skill and courage in shy, awkward Wensleydale, gave drive and direction to an otherwise aimless Brian, and provided a consistent foil for fierce Pepper. In the early years, Crowley lent him his own silver tongue, but these days, Adam Young was more than his match when it came to smooth-talking, and Crowley was expending more energy trying to teach him subtlety and restraint than anything else. It was a bit terrifying to be honest, and Crowley often joked that Adam was the Antichrist, for all the power he seemed to hold. 

And so that was how the Them blossomed, from childhood troublemakers, clever beyond their years and vaguely upset with the ways of the world, to a band of highly-focussed young adults. They were ghosts, anonymously disrupting the status quo of the world on the daily. Brian used his infiltration skills to act as a whistleblower for corrupt corporations and politicians. Wensley framed sexual predators and unjust employers for fraud and theft with fabricated evidence. Adam talked his way into criminal empires and twisted words until big-name players implicated themselves. And Pepper braved dangerous situations to gather evidence for civil cases or fire up unionisation efforts against corporations. 

In between all that, following Warlock’s proposal, they moved art for Crowley, giving perfect replicas to Prince’s ever-wealthy clients and sending the originals to wherever they deemed best to turn back the clock of colonialism in the museum industry. A set of limestone canopic jars from 712 BCE, stolen by Crowley from the Met in New York and returned to the Historical Preservation Society in Cairo. Ceremonial Native American clothing and headdresses from the 1890s, stolen from the Natural History Museum in Washington D.C. and returned to a Lakota tribe in South Dakota. A stunning 10th century sculpture of Kali the Destroyer, stolen from the British Museum and returned to a Hindu temple in Mumbai. The list went on. It was a well oiled machine: Crowley stole the art, Warlock verified its authenticity, Wensley forged a copy while Pepper and Brian researched where best to send the original, Adam coordinated the logistics, Crowley turned in the replica to Prince, and everyone went home paid and happy, the client included. 

The work was gruelling, long-winded, and utterly thankless, given their need to stay anonymous and the fact that they always required recipients of their relics to sign off on a media blackout, lest they risk blowing Crowley’s cover at Prince. It required the carefully-coordinated work of countless people in The Them’s network, some in on the entire operation, but the vast majority not. It required a vast amount of money, in paying for materials for Wensley and under-the-table flights and bribing certain people in the process to look the other way, largely provided by Crowley, who had for many years been slowly and discreetly funneling portions of his significant income from Prince into a series of untraceable offshore bank accounts split between Switzerland, Hong Kong, and Singapore. But it was, to them at least, worth it, knowing that these priceless works of art were going back to their homes, to people who truly knew and appreciated them, rather than as an addendum to some ultra-wealthy collector’s sprawling mansion.

Aziraphale had unwittingly taken Warlock’s place in this pipeline twice now: the first when they’d returned the 16th-century ivory and silver-gilt rosary bead to a small seaside monastery on the northern coast of Spain, which had been a part of the Camino Primitivo, the oldest route in the spiritually-significant and historically-treasured Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. The Mezzoli was the second: returning a long-lost and stolen piece of art, all that remained of Serafino Mezzoli’s legacy after World War I, to his rightful descendant. It was alright that Aziraphale (kind, proper, _radiant_ Aziraphale) was technically taking part in a series of premeditated and carefully-orchestrated crimes, because they were ultimately for good intentions, right?

Right?

“Earth to Crowley,” Pepper said, waving a hand in front of his face. “Did you fall asleep behind those stupid glasses of yours or what?” 

“Tell you what, Pepper,” he replied, pretending that he’d merely been taking his sweet time considering all the information that’d been thrown at him and letting his chair land back on the floor with a _thump_. “Why don’t you get yourself a ticket to Florence? Chaperone the thing firsthand and meet your lady in person? On me, of course,” he added. “For all your hard work.” 

Pepper brightened at that, and for a fleeting moment, it helped, in tamping down the uneasy feeling of guilt in Crowley’s restless heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that all the kids are insanely young for the level of skill they exhibit in their respective fields, but hey, they're geniuses! Here's a [cool article](https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20140423-how-to-forge-a-masterpiece) on master forger Wolfgang Beltracchi, who calls his approach 'method acting on canvas'. It's kind of what I imagine Wensley's process to be! 
> 
> Sorry that it's taking so long for us to get to Aziraphale and Crowley's drive and lunch date! I promise it's coming soon, and once it kicks off, there will be a LOT more interaction for our favorite duo. 
> 
> As usual, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get sticky for our favourite demon. Whether or not it's his _fault_ is a matter of debate, but no one ever said this life would be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Eileen](https://twitter.com/whereiseileen) again for being my wonderful beta!

The remainder of lunch went without incident, much of it occupied by Pepper’s heated ranting about some haughty arts and culture reporter who worked at the _Daily Herald_ with her dad. Apparently, this reporter was ‘a condescending bitch and total disgrace to the arts community’, a word-for-word quote Pepper attributed to her mum that Crowley found to be an especially hilarious example of the apple not falling far from the tree. He would love to meet Pepper’s mum someday-- if only that weren’t a really bad idea, for several different reasons. 

Crowley paid for all of their meals, growling menacingly at Adam’s sassy “thanks, Dad”, the nerve of that kid, and corralled them all back out into the grey afternoon rain, umbrellas in tow. He made a quick stop at Pepper’s Bronco, complimenting her on the shining wax job she’d recently applied to the body, and received in return a tightly-waterproofed and discreetly wrapped flat rectangular package containing Wensley’s Mezzoli replica. 

“By the way,” Brian said, pulling Crowley aside as Warlock and the rest of the Them said their goodbyes. “That thing you asked me about, I checked it out. You were right-- the metadata shows that someone with credentials outside of R&D was in the system after your gear was all logged as ready to go. The contacts were a sealed unit, so there would’ve been no way to tamper with them without you knowing, but the EMP and the lockpick? Fair game. Here’s the log,” he said, discreetly pressing a slip of paper into Crowley’s hand. “The perp wasn’t super secretive about it, but it’s not like anyone would normally be looking at this stuff after the fact. Sorry, Crowley.”

Crowley looked at the slip and sighed. Just as he suspected. “Nah. Got through it alright, didn’t I? Thanks for that, Brian. I owe you one.” He patted the young man on the shoulder, which Brian returned with a small smile before joining the rest of the group.

They parted ways then, the Them piling into Pepper’s truck to head back to the clubhouse for more poverty relieving or CEO damning or whatever it was they had planned for the rest of the day.

Warlock hitched a ride home with Crowley, the two of them belting aloud to Black Sabbath the whole way back to his modest one-bedroom flat in Shoreditch, with the promise to get together sometime soon for a traditional night of takeout and campy horror films (the camp factor was paramount-- it allowed for the specific brand of heckling the two of them loved to partake in together whilst tipsy on cheap boxed wine). 

After dropping Warlock off, Crowley headed west to HQ in the City to hand off the forged drawing and wrap up the remaining threads of the Prague job. 

Thursday afternoon found the Prince building bustling at the pace of a normal workday. Crowley stood out like a sore thumb the entire way from the parking garage to F levels, sauntering through the halls in his ripped black clothes and flash sunglasses amongst the clean-cut, drab dress code of the regular investment consulting employees. 

He was vaguely aware that he held some kind of cult status among Prince’s regular employees, especially the interns, who on more than one occasion he’d heard whispering questions on the sidelines the first time they saw him walking about. It wasn’t like the senior staff knew who he was either; the only facts they’d gleaned after all these years were 1) yes, he did work here, he must do considering how often he came around, 2) he must be some kind of top brass, considering he was only ever seen heading up to the highest floors, 3) he was almost always explicitly breaking the company dress code, though he too occasionally showed up in a smart suit and tie, and 4) no, he never took off the sunglasses. 

It was like being a cryptid in his own place of work. Crowley found the whole business very funny.

The lift in the executive-level lobby arrived with a cheery _ding_ ; it opened to reveal a person already inside. Crowley instinctively raised a hand to indicate that he’d wait for the next one, until he realised that the person in question was Dagon, dark and intimidating in a high-collared, military-style coat. Not what he _wanted_ , but not a _problem_ , he supposed, shrugging and stepping in. He scanned his retina and pressed the button for Bee’s office on 65F before standing back, pushing his glasses back into place and adjusting his grip on the packaged Mezzoli replica under his arm. 

“Scraped through the Prague job then, I see,” Dagon said with a sneer, in lieu of any attempt at a friendly greeting. 

“Lovely city, really,” Crowley drawled back, plastering a falsely cheery smile onto his face. “You were right, y’know-- St. Vitus Cathedral was stunning. I‘ve got photos, if you want to see.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiping it open. 

“I don’t want to see your shitty photos,” she retorted.

“Don’t be like that, here, I’ll show you just the one--” he turned his phone towards her, the screen now occupied by a selfie of Crowley, grinning and flipping the bird at the camera with the beautifully Gothic facade of St. Vitus Cathedral behind him in the bright winter sun. He’d added a caption, which read ‘ _bet u wish u were here, xoxo crowley_ ’ followed by a fish emoji. 

He didn’t even hate Dagon, really. But she hated him, and if she was going to antagonise him anyway, he might as well have some fun, too.

Dagon took one look at the photo and fumed, looking for all intents and purposes like she was heavily debating clocking him one right there in the lift. She held back. “Prick,” she muttered instead, crossing her arms in front of her chest. 

“Yeah, about that,” Crowley said lightly, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket and leaning over to push the emergency stop button in the lift. The bright overhead lights shut off and the lift stopped with a shudder, leaving them in the dim red glow of the emergency lamps.

“What is this, Crowley,” Dagon said, flatly.

“Y’know, I was really hoping you’d be the one to tell me that,” he said, lilting and casual with a scrunch of his face. “Last I checked, R&D doesn’t make mistakes. Not with something as easy as an EMP, and _definitely_ not with an electric lock pick. Amateur hour, by the way, if you thought busting an electric lock pick would keep me from my mark. I’m insulted.” He pressed a hand to his chest, a falsely-scandalised expression on his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied slowly and unconvincingly, which all but confirmed it for Crowley.

“Right…” Crowley said slowly. He pulled out the slip of paper that Brian had given him, squinting at the boy’s messy handwriting in the dimly-lit lift. “So you’re telling me that if I say userkey_f9c_dagon accessed R&D’s private database at 0543 the morning of 21st October 2019, and logged off twenty-one minutes later at 0604 after having banged about for a bit in an equipment calibration file named 0000101719_prsp, created at the behest of one userkey_f9c_serpent, you’d have no idea what that’s about? None?” 

Dagon blanched visibly, even in the low lighting. “How did you-- you don’t have computer programming skills--”

He didn’t. But she didn’t need to know that. “Oh, fish queen,” he said with a tsk. “I’ve got my ways.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t know how you figured it out, but that log’ll be gone by the time you try to do anything about it.” She crowded into his space and snatched Brian’s slip from his fingers.

“Hey!” he shouted indignantly.

“That’s right,” she said with a smirk, shredding the slip between her fingers and letting the pieces flutter to the floor. “And who’d believe you?” 

“They would,” he said, angrily.

“As if,” she retorted. “No one would stand with you over me. They’re too scared of Mum, and damn right they should be. Unlike you,” she sneered, edging him into the corner of the lift, “I’m a _blood_ Prince. Not some throwaway orphan from off the streets.” She reached over to release the emergency stop button, the lights flickering back to life as the lift lurched back into motion up.

The lift reached Dagon’s floor in short order, the doors opening with a chime. 

“Maybe the busted pick didn’t stop you,” she said, halfway out the door, “but you and I both know the only reason you made it out after the faulty EMP was pure dumb luck. Even someone as slippery as you can’t keep that up forever. Thanks for telling me about the log, by the way. I’ll be sure to cover my tracks better next time. You better watch your back, _Serpent_ ,” she said sweetly, smiling widely with a set of too-sharp teeth as the doors closed in between them. 

Crowley took a moment to catch his breath as the lift started moving again. 

Watch his back, indeed. He reached into his pocket and pulled his phone back out, tapping the red dot on the screen to stop the recording. 

The lift reached Bee’s office then. He straightened the collar of his jacket, picked up his package, and strode out, tucking his phone away again with a smirk.

\------------------------------

Crowley had a bit of time to kill after handing off the Mezzoli replica to Bee (she was, in her own words ‘busy as hell’, so the exchange had been rather rushed, and she resolutely did not appreciate it when Crowley decided to call her ‘busy Bee’ on the way out), so he paid a visit to R&D. The Research & Development division occupied almost half of the F levels, spread out from floor 4F all the way to 32F, some of the larger testing rooms even spanning multiple stories in height. Below 4F lay a few admin levels, and even further down, in the subterranean floors, was the domain of Hastur and Ligur and the other enforcers, where the much more unsavoury, and in Crowley’s opinion, tasteless aspects of Prince’s operations took place. The underground hallways were dark, dank, and dirty, and he’d never liked them. He generally had no business going down there, and he was glad for it.

In comparison, the R&D division was best described as a very forthright space; its staff were scientists and engineers; analysts and technicians. There was none of the bureaucratic doublespeak that upper management like Lucille and Bee constantly had to use with clients, nor any of the conniving and scheming that so defined the work of Crowley and his fellow thieves. R&D developed cutting-edge technology, or provided clearly-laid-out services to field agents. It was, in Crowley’s eyes, refreshing. 

Depending on the day, the equipment requisition desk was manned by one of three different young men, who either by wild coincidence or an act of God, were named Eric, Erick, and Erik. All three of them were slim, well-dressed, and dark-skinned, and Crowley had to wonder if perhaps they were triplets, although the thought of parents naming a set of triplets like that seemed especially cruel. Today, he was greeted by Eric, ever-friendly and energetic with his signature oddly-pointed natural hairstyle and a penchant for clothing not unlike Crowley’s own, if a bit less structured and a bit more...mothball-chic.

“Mr. Crowley, always good to see you,” he chirped. “Come to return your gear?”

“Yep,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. He reached into his jacket, pulling out the small hard-shell case he’d been given the week before the Prague job. He snapped it open and spun it around towards Eric, who began logging the contents.

“Night-vision enabled contacts, tinted, one pair. Electric lock pick, standard. Short-range handheld electromagnetic pulse, custom radius. You pack light, Mr. Crowley.”

“I try,” Crowley replied, shrugging. He did too much running and sneaking about in his style of thievery for it to be convenient otherwise. 

“And how did you find everything?”

“Night vision was a lifesaver. I’ll be back for those every job if you’ll have me,”Crowley said with a grin. “You know how much I depend on your lot for contacts.” He gestured vaguely at his shielded eyes. “Perfect as always. Give my regards to the optics folks.”

“Will do. You’re their favourite, you know. Lana loves picking out a new colour for you every month.” Eric said, laughing. “And the rest?”

“About that,” Crowley said, leaning forward across the counter and lowering his voice. “I had a few, er, issues, with the EMP and the pick, actually. Don’t ask how I know, but I’m fairly certain it’s nothing to do with any of the R&D folks. If I could ask a favour...is there a way my future reqs could be blacked out from the company network after calibration? Just until I return them. Y’know, to avoid any...unwelcome meddling.”

Eric frowned. “Are you...are you suggesting your equipment was being tampered with? From within the company?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Crowley said. “I’d rather solve this without kicking up a fuss.”

“Hm,” Eric said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I-- I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll look into it. For you.”

“Thanks, mate,” Crowley said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Gotta run to a briefing, but let me know if it pans out.” 

Eric nodded and waved as Crowley slunk out of the room and back towards the lift, pressing the button for the conference room level. On the way up, the lift stopped at 34F, the firing range, and the doors opened to admit Asmodeus. He was evidently fresh off a round of practise, if the acrid smell of spent gunpowder emanating from his clothes was any indication. 

“Kill anyone in Paris, then?” Crowley joked. 

Asmodeus rolled his amber-coloured eyes as he stepped in to stand next to Crowley. “You know I never bring weapons on jobs. Just a bit of fun is all. What’re you doing down here?”

“Equipment return. Get this-- you were right about the EMP. It was tampered with-- pick too.”

Asmodeus’ eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

Crowley wordlessly pulled out his phone, and clicked play on the recording of Dagon threatening him in the lift. He stopped it once it petered out into static, and shoved the phone back into his pocket. The two of them stood in silence for a few seconds.

“Jesus,” Asmodeus said finally. “I mean everyone knows she hates you, but damn. That’s a hell of a jump from just giving you lip around the office.”

Crowley shrugged. “I mean, she’s probably right that no one would believe me.”

“Is she?” Asmodeus said, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, besides Beelzebub, who isn’t even a thief, you’re kind of Lucille’s favourite. You’ve got more experience and a better track record than Dagon-- hell, you’ve got a better track record than _anyone_ , otherwise you wouldn’t be the _Serpent of Eden_.”

“Can’t deny that she’s a Prince, though.”

“And you’re not? Or did I misremember the fact that Lucille adopted you when you were sixteen?”

“You _know_ that’s not the same thing, Asmodeus,” Crowley asserted, raising his voice slightly. “I’m _not_ a Prince,” he growled. “Never have been, never will be.”

Asmodeus backed off, clever enough to know a touchy subject when he saw one. Instead, he diverted the conversation. “So I take it you’re going to use that recording to ding Dagon at the least convenient and most embarrassing moment possible?”

Crowley grinned, mischievous. “You know me.” The subject of his adoptive mother and head of their collective criminal enterprise receded into the void, forgotten. 

The lift reached its destination, the doors opening with their trademark ding. 

“Besides,” Crowley said, stepping out across the threshold and turning back towards Asmodeus. “Bet you ten quid I’ve only got the Serpent spot because of the face tattoo, anyway. Who can resist a good aesthetic?”

\------------------------------

The assignment briefing was about as boring as usual, Crowley once again slouching customarily across a seat in the back and periodically drifting off behind his sunglasses. Unlike last month, where at least Usher failing his assignment had added a modicum of drama to the proceedings, it was all pretty humdrum this time around. Belphegor had successfully cleaned up Usher’s mess, because of course she had (Bel was probably the biggest reason Crowley had serious doubts that he had the best track record at the company-- that woman really didn’t make mistakes). Asmodeus had successfully hit Sotheby’s Paris, which was admittedly a source of great interest for the room, but Crowley had already heard the play-by-play of that from the man himself at a pub in Knightsbridge a few nights prior.

Crowley himself had no interest in bragging to his cohorts about how he’d made it out of Sternberg Palace out of pure dumb luck, or the fact that he was proud that he hadn’t shattered his ankles after being forced to jump out of a second-story window. He’d done his job; the rest was need-to-know. 

Dagon took the opposite approach, dressing up her recounting of her trip to New Orleans in order to glamourise it as much as she possibly could. Anyone with half a brain could tell that it’d been a pretty standard affair, but some of the admin staff still leaned forward, expressions rapt with attention. Crowley _definitely_ tuned that bit out. 

As it turned out, December assignments were unusually meagre this year, and Crowley, as well as Asmodeus, Bel, and almost half of the Ninth Circle found themselves in the unusual position of being on retainer for the month. Such was how it went sometimes for a business defined solely by client request; when he was younger, Crowley sometimes had to deal with six or seven jobs one month, and just one the next. Ninth Circle assignments were obviously more difficult and time-consuming to plan, and accordingly less frequent, but still, it’d been close to six years since the last time he was put on retainer. 

Maybe it was a good thing, he thought to himself. A chance to get away from the constant chaos of juggling his next heist and making arrangements with the Them. Let Warlock focus on his own work for once. Maybe he’d kick back for a long-overdue Golden Girls rewatch, go shopping for some things that _weren’t_ for a job, or even pay a visit to the local nursery to add some new plants to his collection.

And maybe, if things went well on Saturday, he could spend some more time with Aziraphale. No artwork to analyse, no deadline to hit. Just the two of them, enjoying each other’s company.

For the love of _Someone_ , he hoped he wouldn’t fuck Saturday up. Spending the rest of the month alone in his flat after a rejection sounded like pure agony. 

“The Boss and I are still working through negotiations on a few difficult asks from potential clients, and if they come through, some of you may get December assignments yet,” Bee announced, as she closed out the briefing. Dagon hadn’t been so lucky as to get retainer, having returned to her seat with an open file folder in hand, scrutinising the contents with a look of deep concentration. “In the meantime, remain available in the country, but otherwise enjoy the time off. Overall, it’s been a decent year for us here in the Ninth Circle.” A small smattering of applause rippled through the small crowd.

“Alright, that concludes the December assignment briefing. We’ll take a brief break. As usual, non-field operatives, please stay behind so we can discuss next steps for last month’s jobs.

The crowd broke as people started heading towards the refreshments table, the restroom, and so on. Crowley stood, sauntering over to where Bee was shuffling her papers at the podium next to Lucille in her leather armchair. Both of them looked up as he approached.

“Crowley,” Bee greeted, although ‘greeted’ was a rather strong descriptor for the flatness of her tone.

“Bee,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding to Lucille. 

“What is it, Anthony?” Lucille asked in her elegant, silky voice, tilting her head in curiosity. As usual, she was dressed all in white, today sporting a blindingly bright turtleneck and a long slit skirt under a sleek, crystalline-knit shawl. Her lips and nails were blood red, as always. 

Crowley winced internally at hearing his first name. “It’s about Prague.” 

“Something you didn’t include in your report?” Lucille questioned, raising a perfectly-pencilled eyebrow. Bee narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yeah. Can we do this in the conference room? In private?” He pointed to the room in question, with its soundproof walls, currently sitting empty with its door ajar.

Lucille and Bee looked at each other, then Bee shrugged. “Lead the way,” she said. And Crowley did, making a brief detour to pull Dagon from where she was standing in front of the coffee machine into the room with them, locking the door behind them.

“Get off me--” she barked, wrenching her arm from his grip once they were all inside.

Lucille sat down in one of the chairs around the conference table, crossing one leg over the other as primly as ever. “No need to be so hostile, dear-- Anthony? What’s this about?” Bee just stood there, silent and face carefully blank.

“Yeah, _Anthony_ ,” Dagon sneered, emphasising his first name with dripping malice. “What is this?” The unspoken challenge in her voice was clear as day-- the metadata log was no doubt gone then, just as she’d said. She was daring him to keep going.

Well. He’d bite. 

“Dagon sabotaged the equipment I requisitioned from R&D for Prague,” Crowley began. “She crippled my electric lock pick and changed the effective radius on my portable EMP, which nearly got me caught, or worse, killed, the night of the job.”

“ _What?_ ” Dagon exclaimed, in a false reaction of shock. “I did not.” 

“That’s a pretty major accusation there, Crowley,” Bee said, crossing her arms. “How can you be sure?”

“It’s the truth,” he replied, looking at Dagon. “She can tell you herself.”

“I won’t, because it’s _not_ ,” she retorted. “This is just some baseless way he’s trying to knock me down a peg. It won’t work, Crowley. Mum, why are you letting him just stand there and slander me like that--”

Lucille interrupted her with a simple, commanding wave of her hand. Dagon immediately fell silent. “If what you’re saying proves to be true, Anthony, Dagon would suffer serious consequences. But if not, it’ll be you who will be punished, you understand that, right? I won’t tolerate pointless infighting in this office.” 

“He can’t prove it,” Dagon said, rolling her eyes. “How could he?”

“Come off it,” Crowley scoffed. “You can’t think I’m so stupid that I’d call this meeting without evidence, Dagon.”

“What evidence?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re bluffing.” She stood confidently, evidently feeling safe with the knowledge that she’d shredded Brian’s slip of paper. 

“Maybe I am,” Crowley said. “But ask yourself-- do you feel _lucky_?” He drew out the last word, emphasising each syllable with menace. 

Dagon paused, before making her play-- “As a matter of fact, I do,” she said brashly, puffing out her chest.

“Fine, fine,” Crowley replied lightly, casually. “S’your funeral.” He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and tapped the screen in one smooth sequence, holding it up with one hand and shoving the other into his pocket.

The damning recording rang through the room, echoing off the soundproofed walls with crystal-clear clarity. 

It ended with the sound of the lift starting up again and a few seconds of Crowley’s measured breathing. He stopped the playback with a tap, and looked pointedly at Dagon. Her face had gone as white as a sheet.

“That’s-- that’s not--” she faltered, failing to find the words.

Lucille was silent for a few moments. It was deathly quiet in the room, and Crowley was fighting the urge to fidget. Finally, she spoke up.

“Dagon, I’m very disappointed that you’d treat your brother this way,” she said, her voice quiet and controlled. Bee flinched. Anyone who knew Lucille Prince knew that this was the tone she took on when she was angry. Crowley’s pulse quickened at the sound of it.

“He’s not my brother,” Dagon said angrily. “He’s not a Prince. He shouldn’t be here.” 

“I welcomed Anthony into my house many years ago,” Lucille said in the same low tone. “He’s earned his right to be here just as much as you or Beatrice. I’d gladly allow him to take on our surname if he so wished, but he has expressed otherwise, and I will respect that decision.”

“If he doesn’t appreciate the name, then he shouldn’t get to be a part of the family,” Dagon eked out between gritted teeth. “Either way, he’s not my brother.”

Lucille sighed. “Well, I can’t change the way you feel about that, but the fact remains that what you did to Anthony was extremely dangerous. He could’ve been caught or injured, out of no fault of his own. As your superior, I can’t let such a severe act of sabotage go unpunished.”

Dagon’s eyes widened in shock. “What...what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe you can’t handle working alongside Anthony just yet. Not until you learn to keep your personal grievances out of the workplace.” Lucille sighed, running a hand through her long hair. “Dagon, I’m hereby demoting you to the Eighth Circle, and that’s where you’ll stay until you prove that you can get along with your brother.”

Dagon made a noise not unlike that of a choking cat. Crowley caught Bee’s eye from where she stood behind Lucille, and they both winced. This...would not go over well. Crowley didn’t really know _what_ he had expected to happen, unprecedented situation and all, but demoting her own daughter? Ouch. 

“That’ll be all,” Lucille said smoothly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Beatrice and I have a meeting to reconvene. The two of you are dismissed.” She turned her back on them, and Bee was immediately at her side, pulling out her notes for the second half of the meeting. Crowley and Dagon had no choice but to leave the room together, the door shutting behind them.

Crowley headed towards the lift, intent on getting out of there as fast as possible, but was stopped in his tracks by Dagon’s firm grip on his arm.

“I won’t forgive you for this, Crowley,” she snarled under her breath.

“Didn’t you hear her, _sis_?” Crowley shot back. “You have to learn to _keep your personal grievances out of the workplace_. Seventh, Sixth, Fifth...s’a long way to fall, innit?”

Dagon made a heated noise of frustration, and then-- seemingly forgetting the fact that they were in a public space at the office and therefore had a bit of an audience-- swung at him.

Crowley was not a force of nature; his body, though well taken care of and decently muscled, was built for agility and dexterity, not strength. Head-on, he knew that he was no match for people like Hastur or Ligur, who had made violence their bread and butter. Even Dagon, who was a professional of a different sort, still had the clear advantage of her towering height and superior strength. 

The first blow landed just a few inches shy of Crowley’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and sending him careening backwards into the edge of the formation of folding metal chairs set up in front of the podium. He crashed into them, several of them falling over and scattering across the carpeted floor as he rolled over to regain his balance, grunting with the pain. Several people, some who had been sitting nearby and some unlucky enough to just be standing in the path of the flying chairs, yelped in surprise and scattered.

Crowley felt something warm and wet at the edge of his lips, and he swiped a hand across them, pale fingers coming away red and glistening. Blood, but not too much-- all in all, he was still okay. Thankfully, his sunglasses had somehow managed to stay on during the fray. 

He knew he wouldn’t be able to defeat Dagon. But one thing that Crowley had, that people like Dagon and Hastur and Ligur didn’t, was an imagination, and at times like these, it was the only thing he could rely on. So when she reared up and lunged at him again, he said to himself: _think fast_. 

He just barely managed to sidestep her, dizzy and feet still unsteady in the aftermath of the first blow. Dagon was distracted briefly by being forced to stop abruptly to avoid injuring her hands on the wall behind him, and in that moment, Crowley grabbed a bundle of extension cord from a nearby maintenance cart, unfurled it, and looped the end around one of Dagon’s wrists. 

Dagon had recovered from her sudden stop and was starting to turn around, and Crowley used the momentum to give her tied wrist a resolute tug with his right hand, spinning her body sharply clockwise and causing her to trip over her own feet. With his left hand, he grabbed the handle of the half-open supply closet door next to them and yanked it open as widely and quickly as he could muster. The outer edge of the door collided with Dagon’s stumbling form with a resonating _thud_ , and she crumpled to the floor, letting loose a loud string of swears.

“ _FUCK!_ ” she bellowed, an angry red mark starting to bloom on her face from where the sturdy wooden door had made contact. “CROWLEY, YOU _RAT FUCKING BASTARD._ ”

The commotion was starting to draw a crowd now, as more and more people gathered like moths to a flame to witness the melodramatic conflict unfolding between two of the company’s highest-ranking employees. The tension between Crowley and Dagon was a well-known source of gossip around HQ, and getting to see it come to a head in such spectacular fashion was like paparazzi getting photos of a row between two A-list celebrities.

Crowley’s vision was beginning to swim a little, the impact of the punch to his ribcage evidently a little harder than he initially thought, not to mention the bruises he was bound to have all over from colliding with the stiff metal chairs. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant a trip to hospital, and he wasn’t concerned about internal bleeding, rib fractures, or anything like that, but he could feel the onset of slight nausea. He very much wanted to get out of his restricting clothes, go home, and lie down on his nice, soft bed.

Dagon, bull-headed as she was, had managed to get up though. She was gearing up for another charge when Asmodeus pounced up behind her, wrapping two strong arms beneath her shoulders and holding her back. She struggled against his grip, bucking her legs and hips wildly. As if in direct response, Belphegor suddenly appeared as well. She picked the extension cord Crowley had used on Dagon back up, and deftly strung her ankles together to restrict her movement. 

Even with all four limbs now restrained, Dagon’s fury persisted. “Crowley, you’ll _pay_ for this. See what happens next time when your little friends aren’t here--” she began, when the door to the conference room flew open and Lucille stormed out, pure fury on her face.

“STOP THIS. _NOW_ ,” she thundered, the rest of the room falling into fearful silence. She looked at the tangle of limbs that was Dagon, Asmodeus, and Belphegor. “You two, let her go.” They did, Bel unwinding the extension cord from Dagon’s ankles and sending her stumbling into an undignified pile on the floor. “Asmodeus,” Lucille continued, “see Crowley home.” He nodded, rushing over to Crowley and reaching an arm out to help support him. He pressed the down button for the lift, and helped Crowley in when it arrived. Bel nodded at them from across the room, stern and indomitable like a black-clad wraith, a silent acknowledgement that they both returned. 

“And _you_ ,” Crowley heard Lucille say to a Dagon fallen at her feet, the last thing he saw before the lift doors closed, “Get out of my sight. I’ll deal with you later.” 

The ride back down to the parking garage was silent. Crowley sucked in careful breaths, pain pulsing through his abdomen. Asmodeus tightened his grip on Crowley’s waist.

Crowley closed his eyes, thinking forlornly about the bottle of Talisker 25 he had sitting on the top shelf of his liquor cabinet at home.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucille doesn't seem so bad, right? 8)
> 
> Next week's chapter is our favorite duo's fated drive and lunch date! I know you guys have been waiting <3
> 
> As always, come chat with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) and [Tumblr!](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/)


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